UC-NRLF, 

■III 

B   3    5M6   134  f 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


%  NotJtl 


BY 


AMELIA  B.  EDWARDS. 


AUTHOR   OF 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE,"   ''HAND  AND   GLOVE,"   "THE  STORY  OF 
CERVANTES,"  &c.,  &c. 


NEW    YORK: 
HARPER    &    BROTHERS,    PUBLISHERS, 

I  FRANKLIN    SQUARE. 

1864, 


m^ 


hi 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


I  AM  about  to  tell  the  storj  of  my  life — that  is,  the  story  of  my  child- 
hood and  my  youth ;  for  the  romance  of  life  is  mostly  lived  out  before  we 
reach  middle  age,  and  beyond  that  point  the  tale  grows  monotonous  either 
in  its  grief,  or  its  gladness.     Mine  began  and  ended  when  I  was  young. 

When  I  was  young !  They  are  but  four  words ;  and  yet,  at  the  very 
commencement  of  what  must  prove  a  labour  of  many  months,  they  have 
power  to  arrest  my  pen,  and  blind  my  eyes  with  unaccustomed  tears. 
Tears  partaking  both  of  joy  and  sorrow ;  such  tears  as  those  through  which 
we  all  look  back  to  childhood  and  its  half-forgotten  story.  Oh,  happy 
time!  so  islanded  in  the  still  waters  of  memory;  so  remote,  and  yet  so 
near;  so  strange,  yet  so  familiar!  Come  back  once  more — come  back, 
though  never  so  briefly,  and  light  these  my  pages  with  the  pale  sunshine 
of  a  faded  spring. 

I  am  answered.  A  pleasant  calm  steals  upon  me;  and,  as  one  might 
step  aside  from  the  troubled  streets,  to  linger  awhile  in  the  quiet  sanctuary 
of  a  wayside  church,  so  I  now  turn  from  the  eager  present,  tread  the  dim 
aisles  of  the  past,  sigh  over  the  inscriptions  graven  on  one  or  two  dusty 
'tablets,  and  begin  with  the  recollections  of  infancy  this  narrative  of  my  life. 


635 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


CHAPTER  I. 

EARLY     RECORDS. 

"  On  rajeunit  aux  souvenirs  d'enfance 
Comme  on  renait  au  souffle  du  printemps." 

Beranger. 

Sometimes,  in  the  suburban  districts  of  Lon- 
don, we  chance  upon  a  quaint  old  house  that 
was,  evidently,  a  country-house  some  hundred 
years  ago ;  but  which  has  been  overtaken  by 
the  town,  and  stands  perplexed  amid  a  neigh- 
borhood of  new  streets,  like  a  rustic  at  Charing 
Cross.  There  are  plenty  such.  We  have  seen 
them  in  our  walks,  many  a  time  and  oft.  They 
look  sad  and  strange.  The  shadows  gather 
round  them  more  darkly  than  On  their  neigh- 
bors. The  sunlight  seems  to  pass  them  by  ; 
and  we  fancy  their  very  walls  might  speak,  and 
tell  us  tales.  In  just»such  a  house,  and  such  a 
suburb,  I  was  born. 

Overgrown  for  the  most  part  with  a  mantle 
of  dark  ivy,  inclosed  in  a  narrow  garden  that 
sloped  down  to  a  canal  at  the  back,  and  shut 
sullenly  away  from  the  road  by  some  three  or 
four  dusky  elm-trees  and  a  low  wall,  our  home 
looked  dreary  and  Solitary  enough — all  the  more 
dreary  and  solitary  for  the  prim  terraces  and 
squares  by  which  it  was  on  all  sides  surrounded. 
Within,  however,  it  was  more  cheerful ;  or  cus- 
toni  made  it  seem  so.  From  the  upper  windows 
we  saw  the  Hampstead  hills.  In  the  summer  our 
garden  was  covered  with  grass,  and  the  lilac 
bushes  blossomed  where  they  leaned  toward 
the  canal.  Even  the  shapeless  coal-barges  that 
labored  slowly  past  all  the  day  long  had  some- 
thing picturesque  and  pleasant  about  them. 
Besides,  no  place  can  be  wholly  dull  where 
children's  feet  patter  incessantly  up  and  down 
the  stairs,  and  children's  voices  ring  merrily 
along  the  upper  floors. 

It  was  a  large  old  house — thrice  too  large  for 
any  use  of  ours — and  we  had  it  all  to  ourselves. 
Most  of  the  top  rooms  were  bare  ;  and  I  well 
remember  what  famous  play-grounds  they  made 
by  day,  and  how  we  dreaded  to  pass  near  them 
after  dark.  Up  there,  even  when  my  father 
was  at  home,  we  might  be  as  noisy  as  we 
pleased.  It  was  our  especial  territory  ;  and, 
excepting  once  a  year,  when  the  great  cleaning 
campaign  was  in  progress,  no  one  disputed  our 
prerogative.  We  were  left,  indeed,  only  too 
much  to  our  own  wayward  impulses,  and  grew 
wildly,  like  weeds  by  the  wayside. 

We  were  three — Hilda,  Jessie,  and  Barbara. 
I  am  Barbara ;  and  the  day  that  gave  me  life 
left  us  all  motherless.     Our  father  had  not  mar- 


ried again.  His  wife  was  the  one  love  of  his 
existence,  and  it  seemed,  when  she  was  gone, 
as  if  the  very  power  of  loving  were  taken  from 
him.  Thus  it  happened  that  from  our  first  in- 
fancy we  were  left  to  the  sole  care  of  one  faith-  ■ 
ful  woman-servant,  who  spoiled  us  to  her  heart's 
content,  and  believed  that  we,  like  the  king, 
could  do  no  wrong.  We  call  her  Goody ;  but 
her  name  M^as  Sarah  Beever.  We  tyrannized 
over  her,  of  course  ;  and  she  loved  us  the  more 
for  our  tyranny.  After  all,  hers  was  the  only 
affection  we  had,  and,  judicious  or  injudicious, 
we  should  have  been  poor  indeed  without  it. 

Our  father's  name  was  Edmund  Churchill. 
He  came  of  a  good  family  ;  had  received  a  col- 
legiate education  ;  and,  it  was  said,  had  squan- 
dered a  considerable  fortune  in  his  youth.  When 
nearly  arrived  at  middle  life,  he  married.  My 
mother  was  not  rich — I  never  even  heard  that 
she  was  beautiful ;  but  he  loved  her,  and,  while 
she  lived,  endeavored,  after  his  own  fashion,  to 
make  her  happy.  Too  far  advanced  in  years  to 
apply  himself  to  a  profession,  had  even  the  in- 
clination for  work  not  been  \vanting,  he  found 
himself  a  hopeless  and  aimless  man.  He  could 
not  even  console  himself,  like  some  fathers,  in 
the  society  and  education  of  his  children,  for  he 
was  not  naturally  fond  of  children ;  and  now  all 
the  domestic  virtues  were  gone  out  of  him. 
Wrecked,  stupefied,  careless  alike  of  the  pres- 
ent and  the  future,  he  moped  away  a  few  dull 
months,  and  then,  as  was  natural,  returned  to 
the  world.  He  fell  in  with  some  of  his  former 
friends,  now,  like  himself,  grown  staid  with 
years  ;  entered  a  club ;  took  to  dinner-parties, 
politics,  and  whist ;  became  somewhat  of  a  bon- 
vivant ;  and,  at  forty-four,  adopted  all  the 
small  and  selfish  vices  of  age.  At  the  time 
of  which  I  write,  he  was  still  handsome,  though 
somewhat  stout  and  florid  for  his  years.  He 
dressed  with  scrupulous  neatness ;  was  particu- 
larly careful  of  his  health  ;  and  prided  himself 
upon  the  symmetry  of  his  hands  and  feet. 

His  manners,  in  general,  were  courteous  and 
cold  ;  yet,  in  society,  he  was  popular.  He  pos- 
sessed, in  an  eminent  degree,  the  art  of  pleas- 
ing ;  and  I  do  not  remember  the  day  on  which 
he  dined  at  home.  Yet,  for  all  this,  he  was  a 
proud  man  at  heart,  and  dearly  cherished  every 
circumstance  that  bore  upon  his  name  and  line- 
age. An  observer  might  have  detected  this  by 
only  glancing  round  the  walls  of  our  dusky  din- 
ing-room, and  inspecting  the  contents  of  the 
great  old  carved  bookcase  between  the  windows. 
Here  might  be  seen  a  "  History  of  ye  Noble  and 
Ancient  Houses  of   Devon,"   with    that  page 


8 


BARBARA'S   HISTORY. 


turned  down  wherein  it  treated  of  the  Church- 
ills  of  Ash.  Here  a  copy  of  that  scarce  and 
dreary  folio  entitled  "  Divi  Britannici,"  written 
and  published  by  Sir  Winston  Churchill  in  1675. 
Several  works  on  the  wars  of  Queen  Anne  ;  five 
or  six  different  lives  of  John  Churchill,  Duke  of 
Marlborough  ;  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough's 
"  Private  Correspondence ;"  Chesterfield's  Let- 
ters ;  Mrs.  Manley's  "  Atalantis  ;"  the  "  Me- 
moirs of  the  Count  de  Grammont;"  various 
old  editions  of  PhiUps's  "  Blenheim,"  and  Ad- 
dison's "  Campaign  ;"  the  poetical  works  of 
Charles  Churchill  of  Westminster ;  and  twenty 
volumes  of  the  "  London  Gazette,"  (said  to  be  of 
considerable  value,  and  dating  from  the  year 
1*700  to  1715,)  filled  all  the  upper  shelves,  and 
furnished  my  father  with  the  only  reading  in 
which  he  ever  indulged  at  home.  Nor  was  this 
all.  A  portrait  of  the  brilliant  hero,  when  Lord 
Churchill,  and  some  fine  old  engravings  of  the 
battles  of  Ramillies,  Oudenarde,  and  Malplaquet, 
were  suspended  over  the  chimney-piece  and 
side-board.  A  large  colored  print  of  Blenheim 
House  hung  outside  in  the  hall. 

But  far  more  impressive  than  any  of  these — 
far  more  dignified  and  awful  in  our  childish 
eyes,  was  a  painting  which  occupied  the  place 
of  honor  in  our  best  parlor.  This  work  of  art 
purported  to  be  the  portrait  of  a  second  cousin 
of  my  father's,  one  Agamemnon  Churchill  by 
name,  a  high  authority  upon  all  matters  con- 
nected with  the  noble  science  of  heraldry,  a 
Knight  of  the  Bath,  and  one  of  his  Majesty's 
most  honorable  heralds.  Depicted  here  in  all 
the  glory  of  his  official  costume,  and  looking 
as  like  the  knave  of  clubs  as  if  he  had  just  been 
shuffled  out  of  a  gigantic  pack  of  cards,  Sir 
Agamemnon  Churchill  beamed  upon  us  from 
the  environmentr  of  his  gilded  frame,  and  filled 
our  little  hearts  with  wonder  and  admiration. 
We  humbly  looked  forward  to  the  possibility  of 
some  day  beholding  our  illustrious  kinsman. 
We  fancied  that  his  rank  could  be  only  second 
to  that  of  King  William  himself  We  even 
encouraged  a  secret  belief  that  he  might  succeed 
to  the  throne  at  some  remote  time  or  other ; 
and  agreed  among  ourselves  that  his  first  ex- 
ercise of  the  royal  prerogative  would  be  to 
create  our  father  Duke  of  Marlborough  ;  or,  at 
the  least.  Commander  in  Chief  and  Lord  Mayor 
of  London. 

It  was  but  seldom,  however,  that  we  were 
allowed  to  contemplate  the  splendor  of  Sir 
Agamemnon  and  his  glittering  tabard  ;  for  the 
best  parlor  had  been  a  closed  room  ever  since 
my  mother's  death,  and  was  only  thrown  open 
now  and  then  for  cleaning  purposes.  But  this 
very  restriction ;  this  air  of  mourning  and 
solitude ;  the  darkened  windows ;  the  sheeted 
furniture ;  the  thick  white  dust  that  crept  in 
month  by  month ;  and,  above  all,  the  sense  of 
a  mysterious  loss  which  we  were  all  too  young 
to  comprehend,  only  served  to  invest  the  room 
and  the  picture  with  a  still  deeper  interest.  I 
well  remember  how  often  we  interrupted  our 
garden-games  to  peep,  with  suspended  breath, 
through  the  chinks  of  the  closed  shutters,  and 
how  our  voices  sunk  to  a  whisper  when  we 
passed  the  door. 

I  have  said  that  we  were  three  ;  but  I  have 
not  yet  explained  how  nearly  we  were  of  one 
age,  or  how,  being  the  youngest,  I  was  only  re- 


moved by  three  years  from  my  eldest  sister, 
Hilda,  and  by  fourteen  months  from  my  second 
sister,  Jessie.  My  father's  httle  girls  had,  in- 
deed, sprung  up  quickly  around  him,  and  our 
mother  was  taken  from  us  at  the  very  time  when 
we  most  needed  her. 

Jessie  vras  fair,  and  somewhat  pretty;  but 
Hilda  was  the  beauty  of  the  family,  and  our 
father's  favorite.  She  was  like  him,  but  darker 
of  complexion,  and  more  delicately  featured. 
She  inherited  the  same  pride ;  was  willful  and 
imperious ;  and  exercised,  withal,  after  her 
precocious  fashion,  the  same  power  of  ready 
fascination.  Besides,  she  was  very  clever  — 
much  cleverer  than  Jessie  or  I — and  learned 
with  surprising  facility.  My  sister  Jessie  was 
in  many  respects  less  forward  than  myself.  She 
had  neither  Hilda's  talent  nor  my  steadiness,  and 
was  altogether  deficient  in  ambition.  To  our 
eldest  sister  she  was  entirely  devoted,  submitting 
to  all  her  caprices,  and  accepting  all  her  opinions 
with  a  blind  faith  worthy  of  a  better  cause. 
This  alliance  was  not  favorable  to  my  happiness. 
Hilda  and  Jessie  were  all  in  all  to  each  other, 
and  I  found  myself  excluded  from  the  confi- 
dence of  both.  Forgetting,  or  seeming  to  for- 
get, how  little  our  ages  differed,  they  ti-eated 
me  as  a  mere  baby ;  called  me  "  little  Barbara," 
and  affected  to  undervalue  whatever  I  said  or 
did.  When  I  tacitly  rejected  this  mortifying 
patronage,  and  with  it,  a  companionship  which 
was  only  offered  to  me  during  a  game  of  blind- 
man's-buff,  or  puss-in-the  corner,  I  was  reproach- 
ed for  my  indifference,  or  set  aside  as  simply 
dull  and  tiresome. 

To  be  just,  I  do  not  believe  that  my  sisters 
had  any  idea  of  how  they  made  me  suffer.  I 
was  too  proud  to  let  them  see  it,  and  my  grief 
may  at  times  have  worn  a  sullen  aspect.  Often 
and  often  have  I  stolen  away  to  one  of  the  great 
upper  rooms,  sobbing  and  lamenting,and  wishing 
that  my  heart  might  break  and  put  an  end  to  my 
sorrows — and  yet  I  kept  my  secret  so  bravely 
that  it  was  not  even  suspected  by  the  dear  old 
servant  whom  I  loved  and  trusted  above  all  the 
world. 

The  grievances  of  inf^ancy  lie  mostly  on  the 
surface.  Time  heals  them,  and  they  jeave  no 
scar.  But  this  was  not  my  case.  I  was  more 
sensitive  than  the  generality  of  children,  and, 
I  believe,  more  affectionate.  I  could  have 
loved  my  sisters  with  my  whole  heart ;  but  they 
rejected  me,  and  so  the  estrangement,  which  at 
first  might  have  been  healed  by  a  word,  Avidened 
with  years  and  became  at  last  almost  irreparable. 
By  the  time  that  I  had  reached  the  age  of  nine  or 
ten,  I  was  no  longer  a  child.  My  freshness  of 
feeling  was  gone  —  my  heart  was  chilled  —  my 
first  impulses  were  checked  and  driven  back. 
The  solitude  which  was  once  my  refuge  became 
my  habit;  and,  grown  indifferent  to  opinion,  I 
heard  myself  called  "  strange  and  unsociable" 
without  emotion.  I  appropriated  one  of  the 
garrets  to  my  special  use,  and,  being  left  in  un- 
disturbed possession,  lived  there  among  occu- 
pations and  amusements  of  my  own  creation. 
Thus  it  happened  that,  unless  during  the  hours 
of  meals  or  tuition,  I  lived  almost  entirely 
alone.  My  father  knew  nothing  of  this ;  for 
he  was  always  out,  and  troubled  himself  very 
little  about  our  domestic  managements.  Goody 
knew  and  wondered,  but  loved  me  too  well  to 


BARBARA'S '  HISTORY. 


interfere  with  any  thing  I  chose  to  do  ;  and  my 
sisters,  after  teasing  and  laughing  at  me  to  their 
hearts'  content,  at  last  grew  weary,  and  aban- 
doned me  to  my  own  solitary  ways. 

It  was  a  sad  life  for  a  child,  and  might  have 
led  to  many  evils,  but  for  a  circumstance  which 
I  must  ever  regard  as  something  more  than 
mere  good  fortune. 

Having  wandered  up-stairs  one  day  with  noth- 
ing to  read  and  nothing  to  think  of,  and  being, 
moreover,  very  listless  and  weary,  I  bethought 
myself  of  a  pile  of  old  boxes  which  lay  stored 
together  in  a  certain  dark  closet  close  at  hand, 
and  so  set  to  work  to  turn  out  their  contents. 
Most  of  them  were  empty,  or  contained  only 
coils  of  rotten  rope,  pieces  of  faded  stuffs  and 
damasks,  and  bundles  of  accounts.  But  in  one, 
the  smallest  and  least  promising  of  all,  I  found 
a  dusty  treasure.  This  treasure  counted  of 
•  some  three  or  four  dozen  worm-eaten,  faded  vol- 
umes, tied  up  in  lots  of  four  or  six,  and  over- 
laid with  blotches  of  white  mold.  A  motley 
company  !  Fox's  "  Martyrs ;"  the  Works  of 
Dr.  Donne ;  Sir  Thomas  Browne  on  "  Urn  Buri- 
al;"  a  Translation  of  Pliny,  with  Blustrations ; 
Defoe's  "History  of  the  Plague;"  Riccoboni 
on  the  Theaters  of  Europe;  "Hudibras  ;"  Wal- 
ler's Poems ;  Bolingbroke's  "  Letters  on  English 
History ;"  the  Tatler,  Guardian,  and  Specta- 
tor ;  Drelincourt  on  Death,  with  the  History  of 
Mrs.  Veal ;  an  odd  volume  or  two  of  the  Gen- 
tleman's Magazine,  and  some  few  others,  chiefly 
farming  books  and  sermons.  It  was  a  quaint 
library  for  so  young  a  reader,  but  a  most  wel- 
come one.  I  necessarily  met  with  much  that  I 
could  not  understand,  and  yet  contrived  to  reap 
pleasure  and  profit  from  ail.  I  had  boundless 
faith  to  begin  with,  and  believed,  like  the 
Arabs,  that  every  thing  printed  must  be  true.  I 
was  puzzled  by  Sir  Hudibras,  but  never  doubted 
either  his  courage  or  identity.  I  was  interested 
by  the  letters  in  the  Tatler,  and  only  wondered 
that  so  many  ladies  and  gentlemen  should  have 
ventured  to  trouble  that  nice  good-natured  Mr. 
Bickerstaff  with  their  unimportant  private  affairs. 
As  for  Edmund  Waller,  Esquire,  I  was  quite  sor- 
ry for  his  distresses ;  and  could  not  conceive  how 
the  beautiful  Sacharissa  could  bear  to  be  told 
that  she  had  "  a  wild  and  cruel  soul"  with- 
out relenting  immediately.  To  me,  happy  in 
my  credulity,  the  Phoenix  and  Mrs.  Veal  were 
alike  genuine  phenomena;  and  had  Sir  Aga- 
memnon Churchill  himself  attempted  to  con- 
vince me  that  the  History  of  the  Plague  was 
written  by  any  other  than  "  a  citizen  who  lived 
the  whole  time  in  London,"  I  should  have  made 
bold  to  reserve  my  own  opinion  on  the  subject. 

Other  books  I  had  as  well — books  better 
suited  to  my  age  and  capacity ;  but  these,  being 
common  property,  were  kept  in  the  school-room, 
and  consisted  for  the  most  part  in  moral  tales 
and  travels,  which,  read  more  than  once,  grow 
stale  and  wearisome. 

Fortunate  was  it  that  I  found  this  second 
life  in  my  books  ;  for  I  was  a  very  lonely  little 
girl,  with  a  heart  full  of  unbostowed  affection, 
and  a  nature  quickly  swayed  to  smiles  or  tears. 
The  personages  of  my  fictitious  world  became 
as  real  to  me  as  those  by  whom  I  was  surround- 
ed in  my  daily  life.  They  linked  me  with  hu- 
manity. They  were  my  friends,  my  instructors, 
my    companions.     I    loved    some,    and  hated 


others,  as  cordially  as  if  they  could  love  or  hate 
me  in  return ;  and,  in  the  intensity  of  my  sym- 
pathy with  their  airy  sorrows  and  perplexities, 
learned  to  forget  my  own. 

But  I  had  still  another  happiness — a  half-de- 
veloped taste,  which,  fed  by  such  scant  nutri- 
ment as  fell  now  and  then  in  my  way,  ripened, 
year  after  year,  to  a  deep  and  earnest  passion, 
and  influenced  beyond  all  calculation  the  des- 
tinies of  my  later  life.  Art  —  art  called  the 
Divine,  but  known  to  me  under  its  meanest  and 
most  barren  form  —  fed  the  dreams  of  my 
childhood,  and  invested  with  an  undeserved  in- 
terest the  few  wretched  prints  scattered  here 
and  there  through  the  pages  of  Fox's  Martyrs. 
Goldsmith's  Geography,  and  other  works  of  the 
same  "  mark  and  likelihood."  Sometimes,  af- 
ter my  own  imperfect  fashion,  I  strove  to  repro- 
duce them  in  pencil  or  charcoal.  Sometimes, 
even,  I  attempted  to  illustrate  the  adventures  of 
my  favorite  heroes,  or  the  landscapes  described 
in  books  of  travel.  The  whitewashed  walls  of 
my  garret,  the  covers  and  margins  of  my  copy- 
books, and  all  the  spare  scraps  of  paper  that  I 
could  find,  were  scrawled  over  with  designs  in 
which  the  love  of  beauty  might,  perhaps,  have 
been  discernible ;  but-  in  which  every  rule  of 
anatomy,  perspective,  and  probability  was  hope- 
lessly set  at  naught.  But  of  this,  more  here- 
after. 

Happy  art  thou,  0  little  child,  to  whom  is 
granted  the  guidance  of  loving  parents  !  Happy, 
thrice  happy,  in  the  fond  encouragements,  the 
gentle  reproofs,  the  tender  confidences  and  con- 
solations lavished  on  thy  first  uncertain  years  ! 
I  lost  one  of  mine  before  my  lips  had  ever  been 
hallowed  by  her  kisses ;  and  by  the  other  I  was, 
if  not  wholly  unloved,  at  least  too  much  ne- 
glected. How  I  yearned  and  wearied  for  those 
affections  that  I  now  could  never  have  ;  how  I 
used  to  steal  to  dear  old  Goody's  knees  in  the 
dim  twilight,  and  beseech  her  to  tell  me  some- 
thing of  my  mother  ;  how  I  listened  with  tears 
that  I  was  ashamed  to  show,  and  stole  away 
to  hide  them  ;  how,  thinking  over  all  these 
things,  I  sometimes  gave  way  to  fits  of  bitterness 
and  anger,  and  sometimes  sobbed  myself  to 
sleep,  with  my  head  resting  on  a  book,  matters 
little  now,  and  except  as  it  may  throw  a  light  on 
certain  passages  of  my  inner  life,  is  scarcely  de- 
serving of  mention.  Alas  !  I  have  yet  much 
more  to  tell.  The  long  story  of  my  workings  and 
wanderings  lies  all  before  me  like  a  summer  land- 
scape, with  its  lights  and  shadows,  its  toilsome 
plains,  and  its  places  of  green  rest,  mapped  out, 
and  fading  away  together  in  the  blue  distance. 

Here,  at  all  events,  let  me  end  my  first  day's 
record ;  for  I  am  weary,  and  these  pictures  of 
the  past  lie  heavily  at  my  heart. 


CHAPTER    II. 

DEPORTMENT   AND   DISCIPLINE. 

My  father's  bell  rang  sharply. 

It  was  about  eleven  o'clock  on  a  brilliant  May 
morning.  Miss  Whymper,  who  attcnded'to  our 
education  between  the  hours  of  nine  and  twelve 
daily,  presided  at  the  head  of  the  table,  correct- 
ing French  exercises.  We,  respectfully  with- 
drawn to  the  foot  of  the  same,  bent  busily  over 
our  books  and  slates,  and  preserved  a  decorous 


10 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


silence.  We  all  heard  our  father  close  his  bed- 
room door  and  go  down-stairs  ;  but  it  was  his 
habit  to  rise  and  breakfast  late,  and  we  took  no 
notice  of  it.  We  also  heard  him  ring ;  but  we 
took  no  notice  of  that  either.  Scarcely,  however, 
had  the  echo  of  the  first  bell  died  away,  when  it 
was  succeeded  by  a  second,  and  the  second  was 
still  pealing  when  he  opened  the  parlor  door, 
and  called  aloud. 

"  Beever  1"  said  he,  impatiently.  "  Beever  ! 
am  I  to  ring  for  an  hour  ?" 

The  reply  was  inaudible  ;  but  he  spoke  again, 
almost  without  waiting  to  hear  it. 

"  When  did  this  letter  arrive  ?  Was  it  here 
last  night  when  I  came  home,  or  was  it  deliver- 
ed only  this  morning  ?  Why  didn't  you  bring 
'  it  up  to  me  with  the  shaving  water  ?  Where  is 
Barbara?"      " 

Startled  at  the  sound  of  my  own  name,  I  rose 
in  my  place,  and  waited  with  suspended  breath. 
My  sisters,  with  their  heads  still  bent  low, 
glanced  first  at  me  and  then  at  each  other. 

"  Be  so  good,  Miss  Barbara,  as  to  concentrate 
your  attention  upon  your  studies,"  said  Miss 
Whymper,  without  even  raising  her  eyes  from 
the  exercises. 

"I — I — that  is,  papa — I  heard " 

"  Be  so  good  as  to  hear  nothing  duinng  the 
hours  of  education,"  interposed  Miss  Whymper, 
still  frostily  intent  upon  the  page  before  her. 

"  But  papa  calls  me,  and " 

"  In  that  case  you  will  be  sent  for.  We  will 
proceed,  if  you  please,  young  ladies,  to  the 
analyzation  of  the  Idiom." 

We  pushed  our  slates  away,  took  each  our 
French  grammar,  and  prepared  to  listen. 

"The  Idiom,"  said  Miss  Whymper,  sitting 
stiffly  upright,  and,  as  was  her  wont,  cadencing 
her  voice  to  one  low  monotonous  level,  "  is  a 
familiar  and  arbitrary  turn  of  words,  which, 
without  being  in  strict  accordance  with  the  re- 
ceived laws  of " 

"  Barbara  !  Barbara,  come  here.  Tell  Miss 
Whymper  I  want  you !" 

I  started  up  again,  and  Miss  Whymper,  inter- 
rupted in  her  discourse,  frowned,  inclined  her 
head  the  very  least  in  the  world,  and  said  : 

"  You  have  my  permission,  Miss  Barbara,  to 
retire," 

I  was  always  nervous  in  my  father's  presence  ; 
but  the  suddenness  and  strangeness  of  the  sum- 
mons made  me  this  morning  more  than  usually 
timid.  I  ran  down,  however,  and  presented 
myself,  tremblingly,  at  the  door  of  the  breakfast- 
parlor.  He  was  pacing  to  and  fro,  between  the 
table  and  the  window.  His  coffee  stood  untasted 
in  the  cup.  In  his  hand  he  crushed  an  open 
letter.  Seeing  me  at  the  door,  he  stopped,  flung 
himself  into  his  easy  chair,  and  beckoned  me  to 
co*e  nearer. 

"  Stand  there,  Barbara,"  said  he,  pointing  to 
a  particular  square  in  the  pattern  of  the  car- 
pet. 

Shaking  from  head  to  foot,  I  came  forward 
and  stood  there,  waiting,  like  a  criminal  for  his 
sentence. 

"  Humph !     Can't  you  look  up  ?" 

I  looked  up ;  looked  down  again ;  turned  red 
and  white  alternately ;  and  felt  as  if  the  ground 
were  slipping  from  under  my  feet. 

My  father  uttered  an  exclamation  of  impa- 
tience. 


"  Good  heavens !"  said  he,  pettishly.  "  What 
gaucherie  I  Are  you  taught  to  hold  yourself  no 
better  than  that  ?  Are  your  arms  pump-handles  ? 
What  stranger  would  imagine — well,  well,  it 
can't  be  helped  now  1  Tell  me — did  you  ever  . 
hear  of  your  great-aunt,  who  lives  in  Suffolk?" 

"  Heard  of  Mrs.  Sandyshaft  !"  exclaimed 
Goody,  who  had  been  standing  by  the  door, 
twirling  her  apron  with  both  hands  all  the  time. 
"  I  should  think  so  indeed  !  Often  and  often  ; 
and  of  Stoneycroft  Hall,  too — haven't  vou,  mv 
lamb?"  ^     '     ^ 

Too  confused  to  speak,  I  nodded;  and  my 
father  went  on, 

"  I  have  had  a  letter  from  your  great-aunt  this 
morning,'  Barbara,  Here  it  is.  She  asks  me  to 
send  you  down  to  Suffolk  ;  and,  as  it  may  be 
greatly  for  your  good,  I  shall  allow  you  to  go. 
Though  at  a  great  inconvenience  to  myself, 
remember.    At  a  great  inconvenience  to  myself."     ' 

Uncertain  what  to  reply,  I  looked  down,  and 
stammered : 

"  Yes,  papa." 

"  I  have  not  seen  Mrs.  Sandyshaft  for  many 
years,"  continued  my  father.  "  In  fact,  we — we 
have  not  been  friends.  But  she  may  take  a 
liking  for  you,  Barbara—  and  she  is  rich.  You 
must  try  to  please  her.  You  will  go  this  day 
week,  if  -Beever  can  get  you  ready  in  tlie  time. 
What  do  you  say,  Beever  ?" 

"  Less  than  a  week  will  do  for  me,  sir,"  said 
Goody,  promptly. 

"  No,  no ;  a  week  is  soon  enough.  And,  Bee- 
ver, you  are  not  to  spare  for  a  pound  or  two. 
I  must  have  her  look  like  a  gentleman's  child, 
anyhow.  Not  but  that  it  is  excessively  incon- 
venient to  me,  just  now.  Excessively  incon- 
venient !" 

He  paused,  musingly,  and  then,  leaning  his 
chin  upon  his  hand,  looked  at  me  again,  and 
sighed.  The  sight,  I  suppose,  was  unsatisfactory 
enough ;  for  the  longer  he  looked,  the  more  his 
countenance  darkened.  Suddenly  he  rose,  pushed 
his  chair  away,  and  planted  himself  in  the  middle 
of  the  heartR-rug  with  his  back  to  the  fire. 

"  My  compliments  to  Miss  Whymper,  Beever, 
and  I  request  the  favor  of  a  moment's  conver- 
sation." 

Beever  departed  on  her  errand.  After  a  few 
seconds  of  uneasy  silence,  during  which  I  never 
ventured  to  stir  from  that  particular  square  upon 
the  carpet.  Miss  Whymper  caftie. 

My  father  bowed  profoundly.    Miss  Whymper 
courtesied  to  the  ground.     I  always  noticed  that       ^ 
they  wei'e  amazingly  polite  to  each  other. 

"  Madam,"  said  my  father  with  his  grandest 
air,  and  in  his  blandest  accents,  "  unwilling  as  I 
am  to  trespass  on  your  valuable  time,  I  have 
ventured  to  interrupt  you  this  morning  in  order 

to  consult  you  upon Barbara,  place  a  chair 

for  Miss  Whymper." 

Miss  Whymper  courtesied  again,  laid  her  head  a 
little  on  one  side,  like  a  raven,  and  folded  her 
hands  together,  as  if  she  were  expressing  the 
letter  M  in  the  manual  alphabet. 

"  I  propose,  madam,"  pursued  my  father,  "to 
send  Barbara  on  a  visit  to  a  relation — a  rich  and 
somewhat  eccentric  relation — who  resides  in  the 
country,  and  with  whom  we  have  not  held 
communication  for  many  years.  It  is  important, 
for  several  reasons,  Miss  Whymper,  that  the 
child  should  make  a  favorable  impression ;  and 


BARBARA'S   HISTORY. 


11 


I  feel  sure  that  I  shall  not  vainly  entreat  your 
cooperation  during  the  few  days  that  intervene 
between  the  present  time  and  the  period  of  her 
departure." 

"With  regard  to  any  thing  that  /can  do," 
murmured  Miss  Whymper,  patting  her  hands 
softly  together,  as  if  she  were  applauding,  "  Mr. 
Churchill  may  at  all  times  command  me." 

My  father  glanced  at  Miss  Whymper's  hands, 
which  were  somewhat  red  and  bony,  and  at  his 
own,  which  were  particularly  white  and  well 
shaped ;  and  so,  trifling  carelessly  with  his  watch- 
chain,  continued. 

"  I  am  aware,  of  course,"  said  he,  "  that 
much  can  not  be  done  in  so  short  a  time  ;  but 
that  something  may,  I  am  induced  to  hope, 
knowing — ahem  ! — the  talent  and  judgment  to 
which  I  confide  the  task." 

Miss  Whymper  smiled  the  iciest  of  smiles, 
and  acknoNvledged  the  tribute  by  another  bow, 
which  my  father  returned  immediately. 

"  You  observe,  no  doubt,  Miss  Whymper," 
he  continued,  "  that  Barbara's  carriage  is  es- 
sentially ungraceful.  She  never  knows  what  to 
do  with  her  feet.  Her  hands  do  not  seem  to 
belong  to  her.  She  enters  a  room  badly.  She 
has  no  self-possession,  no  style,  no  address — in 
short,  there  is  nothing  in  her  appearance  which 
indicates  either  good  blood  or  good  breeding." 

Whereupon  my  father  glanced  over  his  shoul- 
der at  th^  chimney-glass,  and  paused  for  a 
reply.  Miss  Whymper,  perceiving  that  I  had 
withdrawn  behind  her  chair,  as  much  out  of  sight 
as  possible,  shifted  her  position,  and  considered 
me  attentively. 

"  It  is  quite  true,  sir,"  she  sighed,  after  a  few 
minutes  of  silence.  "  She  is  lamentably  awk- 
ward !     And  yet  her  sister  Hilda " 

"  Ah  !  if  it  had  been  Hilda  !"  exclaimed  my 
father,  regretfullv.  "  Why  could  she  not  have 
invited  Hilda  ?"  * 

"  So  quick,  so  naturally  graceful,  such  rapid 
perception  I"  murmured  Miss  Whymper,  still 
noiselessly  applauding. 

"  The  only  one  of  the  three  who  is  like  me !" 
added  my  father,  with  another  glance  at  the 
glass. 

"  A  truly  aristocratic  cast  of  features,"  re- 
turned Miss  Whymper,  "  and  the  very  child  to 
please  a  stranger !  Well,  well — we  may  do 
something  with  Miss  Barbara,  after  all ;  and, 
perhaps,  by  confining  our  attention  for  the 
present  to  that  one  object " 

"  Precisely  so,  Madam.     That  is  what  I  wilh." 

"  And,  if  Mr.  Churchill  entertains  no  objec- 
tion, by  employing  the  aid  of  a  few  calisthenic 
exercises " 

''  Just  so,  Miss  Whymper.     Just  so." 

"  I  do  not  doubt  being  enabled  to  effect  some 
slight  improvement." 

"  In  which  case,  Madam,  you  will  confer  a 
favor  upon  me." 

"  And  should  any  trifling  outlay  be  requir- 
ed  " 

"You  will  charge  whatever  is  necessary  to 
my  account." 

*'  A  back-board,  for  instance,  and  a  pair  of 
dumb-bells?" 

"  I  leave  everything,  Miss  Whymper,  to  your 
experience  and  discretion." 

The  tone  in  which  my  father  uttered  these  last 
words,  and  the  bow  by  which  they  were  accom- 


panied, concluded  the  interview.  Miss  Whym- 
per rose;  he  held  the  door  open  while  she 
passed  through  ;  more  bows  and  courtesies  were 
exchanged,  and,  when  she  was  gone,  he  shrug- 
ged his  shoulders  contemptuously,  and  flung 
himself  once  more  into  the  easy  chair. 

"  Pshaw  !"  he  muttered,  "  governesses  and 
children — necessary  evils  !  Barbara,  you  may 
go  back  to  your  lessons,  and  tell  Beever  to  bring 
fresh  coffee." 

The  result  of  this  conversation  was  to  make 
my  life  unbearably  wretched  for  the  next  seven 
days.  I  was  taught  to  walk,  to  stand,  to  shake 
hands.  I  stood  in  the  stocks,  and  wore  the 
back-board,  till  I  was  ready  to  faint.  I  was 
placed  before  a  looking-glass,  and  made  to 
courtesy  to  my  own  reflection  for  the  half  hour 
together.  I  went  through  the  first  interview 
with  my  great-aunt  twenty  times  a  day ;  my 
great-aunt  being  represented  by  a  chair,  and 
Miss  Whymper  standing  by  to  conduct  the 
performance.  All  this  was  very  painful  and 
perplexing,  and,  at  the  same  time,  very  ludi- 
crous. As  for  Hilda  and  Jessie,  they  allowed  me 
no  peace  from  morning  till  night;  but,  when 
our  governess  was  out  of  the  way,  mimicked  me 
with  elaborate  salutations,  inquired  perpetually 
after  my  health  and  that  of  my  great-aunt,  and 
humbly  hoped  that  when  I  had  inherited 
Stoneycroft  Hall,  and  become  a  grand  lady,  I 
should  not  be  too  proud  to  take  notice  of  my 
poor  relations  ! 

Thus  the  weary  week  went  by,  and  but  for 
dear  old  Goody,  who  comforted  and  consoled  me 
under  all  my  trials,  I  hardly  know  how  I  could 
have  gone  through  it.  Go  through  it  I  did, 
however ;  and,  drilled  and  dislocated  to  the 
uttermost  verge  of  endurance,  hailed  with  a 
blessed  sense  of  coming  liberty  the  morning  of 
my  departure. 

♦ 

CHAPTER    III. 

ON    THE    ROAD. 

Seated  in  a  corner  of  the  Suffolk  Stage,  with 
Goody  clinging  in  an  agony  of  tears  to  the 
door,  and  the  guard  insisting  that  she  must  get 
down,  as  the  coach  is  going  immediately,  I  feel 
that  I  am,  indeed,  a  very  lonely  Httle  traveler. 
I  have  left  so  early  that  no  one  in  the  house  was 
awake  to  bid  me  good-by;  I  have  scarcely 
slept  at  all  throughout  the  night;  and  I  have 
eaten  no  breakfast.  Worse  than  all,  my  firm- 
ness is  fast  oozing  away,  and  there  is  a  lump  in 
my  throat  that  will  surely  break  into  sobs  with 
the  next  word  I  utter. 

"  Now,  ma'am,  for  the  last  time  if  you  please," 
says  the  guard,  impatiently. 

"Eighty  mile  and  more!"  sobs  Goody,  cling- 
ing all  the  faster.  "  Oh  !  my  dear  lamb,  eig|b^ 
mile  and  more!"  '  ▼ 

"Well,  it's  your  own  choice,"  growls  the 
guard,  with  an  oath  and  a  scowl,  as  he  clambers 
to  his  seat.  "  You'll  be  thrown  off  the  step,  as 
sure  as  you're  a  Christian  woman  !" 

Whereupon  she  smothers  me  in  one  last 
frantic  embrace,  and,  being  wrenched  away  by 
a  humane  bystander,  disappears  suddenly — only 
to  reappear,  however,  as  suddenly ;  and,  as  the 
coach  starts,  to  cry : 

"  Good-by  !  good-by  !  my  darling !  Eat  your 
money,  and  take  care  of  your  sandwiches  !" 


12 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


Having  no  voice  to  answer,  I  can  only  hang 
from  the  window  and  wave  my  hand.  We 
plunge  out  of  the  inn-yard  and  into  the  busy 
street  beyond — the  guard  blows  his  horn — the 
loungers  give  a  shout — and,  looking  after  her  to 
the  last,  I  catch  one  parting  glimpse  of  Goody 
in  insane  pursuit.  Then  a  crowd  of  vehicles  in- 
tervenes ;  we  whirl  sharply  round  a  corner  j 
and  there  is  nothing  left  for  me  but  to  shrink 
back  in  my  place  and  weep  silently. 

A  long  time  goes  by  thus.  My  fellow-travel- 
ers, who  are  four  in  number  and  seem  all  to  be- 
long to  one  family,  talk  loudly  among  them- 
selves, and  take  no  notice  of  me.  Looking  up, 
by  and  by,  when  my  first  anguish  has  some- 
what abated,  I  observe  that  they  consist  of  a 
father,  mother,  and  two  daughters,  all  very 
cheerful  and  good-tempered-looking,  and  all 
busily  engaged  in  the  consumption  of  stout  sau- 
sage rolls.  Being  pressed  to  accept  one  of 
these,  and,  to  my  shame,  bursting  into  another 
flood  of  tears  with  the  effort  of  declining  it,  I 
turn  my  face  to  the  window,  and  they  consider- 
ately speak  to  me  no  more. 

The  morning  is  cold  and  gray,  and  a  melan- 
choly damp,  which  is  half  rain,  half  fog,  clings 
to  the  panes,  and  makes  the  prospect  ghostly. 
We  are  not  yet  out  of  the  great  suburbs ;  but 
the  houses,  which  run  mostly  in  terraces,  have 
an  out-of-town  look,  and  are  presently  succeeded 
by  groups  of  twin-villas  with  gaps  of  market 
gardens  between.  Then  come  brick-fields,  villas 
half  built  up,  patches  of  waste  ground,  and  lines 
of  dreary  pasture,  which,  seen  through  the  driz- 
zling mist,  look  more  dismal  than  the  streets. 

Struck  with  the  silence  that  has  succeeded  to 
the  brisk  conversation  with  which  they  began 
the  journey,  I  venture  once  again  to  glance  at 
my  companions,  and  find  that  they  have  all  four 
fallen  asleep,  with  their  heads  tied  up  in  pocket 
handkerchiefs — a  proceeding  so  sensible  and 
contagious,  that  I  presently  find  myself  also 
getting  drowsy,  and,  before  many  minutes  are 
past,  have  forgotten  my  troubles  in  a  deep  and 
dreamless  slumber.  Not  having  rested  all  the 
night  before,  I  now  sleep  heavily — so  heavily 
that  nothing  less  than  the  opening  of  the  door 
and  the  entrance  of  the  sixth  passenger  (whose 
place  has  all  this  time  been  vacant)  awakens  me. 
It  is  now  close  upon  midday.  The  mist  has 
cleared  off;  the  sun  shines  out  gloriously ;  the 
sky  is  islanded  with  great  solitary  clouds ;  there 
are  trees  and  trim  hedges  on  either  side  of  the 
road;  and  the  country  all  about  is  green  and 
pleasant.  We  are  running  on  briskly,  at  the 
rate  of  ten  miles  an  hour — so,  at  least,  our  last 
traveler  observes — and  the  village  at  which  we 
took  him  up  is  already  left  far  behind. 

"Ten  mile  an  hour,  a  fine  day,  and  five 
a^eeable  companions  (four  of  'em  ladies,)"  says 
um  new  comer,  with  a  sniff  at  every  comma, 
"  what  can  the  'art  of  man  desire  more  ?" 

He  is  a  plump,  smooth-shaven  individual,  with 
an  unhealthy  complexion,  a  black  suit,  a  white 
neck-cloth,  and  a  brown  cotton  umbrella.  De- 
spite the  complacent  smile  with  which  he  looks 
round  upon  the  company,  he  is  not  by  any 
means  attractive,  and  nobody  seems  disposed  to 
improve  his  acquaintance. 

"  Except  conversation,"  he  adds,  after  a  long 
pause.     "Yea — except  godly  conversation." 

A  dead  silence  follows,  during  which  he  smiles 
and  looks  round,  as  before. 


"And  godly  conversation,"  says  he,  at  the 
end  of  another  interval,  "is  the  refreshment  of 
the  sperrit." 

Still  no  one  answers,  and  this  time  the  omis- 
sion can  hardly  be  misconstrued.  By  the  fad- 
ing of  his  ugly  smile,  and  the  gloom  that  gath- 
ers gradually  about  his  heavy  brow,  it  is  plain 
that  he  sees  the  unpleasant  truth  at  last.  Find- 
ing presently  that  the  father  and  daughters  have 
resumed  their  chat  in  whispers,  and  that  the 
mother  has  turned  directly  away  from  him,  he 
pulls  a  greasy  book  from  his  pocket,  lolls  back 
in  his  place,  and  reads  sullenly. 

Thoroughly  amused  by  the  incidents  of  the 
road,  and  delighted  with  the  country,  I  watch 
every  thing  that  passes,  and  soon  forget  all  about 
my  traveling  companions.  The  green  fields 
rippling  over  with  young  wheat  —  the  snug 
farm-houses,  set  round  with  yellow  stacks  and 
mossy  barns  —  the  wayside  pond  with  its  fleet  of 
callow  ducklings  —  the  gray  church  tower  that 
peeps  above  the  willows — the  wedry  peddler 
resting  by  the  cross  roads,  with  his  bundle  at 
his  feet  —  the  solitary  inn,  with  its  swinging 
sign,  its  old  worn  trough,  and  its  sunburnt  ost- 
ler lounging  at  the  door — the  traveling  cara- 
van that  labors  on  with  smoking  chimney  and 
close-shut  windows,  and  is  so  soon  left  out  of 
sight — .the  stretch  of  furzy  common  —  the 
bridge  where  boys  are  angling  —  the  drove  of 
frantic  pigs  that  rush  under  our  very  wheels, 
and  seem  bent  on  suicide  —  the  plantations, 
mansions,  toll-gates,  wagons ;  in  short,  all  these 
sights  and  sounds  of  country  life  fill  my  mind 
with  pleasant  pictures,  and  my  heart  with  glad- 
ness. 

Rattling  at  hot  noon  into  a  clean,  bright,  busy 
town,  where  it  is  market-day  and  the  streets  are 
thronged  with  farmers,  we  dash  up  to  a  large 
inn  called  the  "Rose  and  Crown,"  and  halt  to 
dine.  Having  my  basket  of  sandwiches  at  my 
feet,  and  being,  besides,  somewhat  shy  of  the 
inn  and  the  strange  people,  I  remain  in  the 
coach  alone;  but  the  cheerful  family  hurry 
away  as  briskly  as  if  the  stout  sausage-rolls  had 
appealed  only  to  their  imaginations,  and  the 
sleek  stranger  saunters  blandly  up  and  down 
the  yard  under  the  shadow  of  his  cotton  um- 
brella. Seeing  me  engaged,  shortly  after,  on 
the  contents  of  my  basket,  he  ht)vers  about 
the  door,  smiles,  lingers,  and  looks  interested. 

"  What  are  your  sandwiches  made  of,  my 
dear?"  he  asks  at  length.     "Ham  or  beef?". 

••Beef,  sir,"  I  reply,  coloring  painfully. 

The  stranger  smacks  his  lips. 

"  Dear  me  !"  says  he  meditatively.  "  Only  to 
think  that  they  are  beef !  Why,  I  guessed  they 
were  beef  from  the  beginning  !  They  look  very 
nice." 

Scarcely  knowing  whether  it  be  polite  to  do 
so,  and  fearful  at  the  same  time  of  offending 
this  gentleman's  delicacy,  I  hold  out  the  basket 
with  a  timid  hand,  and  try  to  falter  forth  some 
words  of  invitation.  To  my  surprise,  he  ac- 
cepts immediately;  and  not  only  accepts,  but 
steps  straightway  into  the  coach,  takes  my 
basket  on  his  knees,  and,  to  show  how  little 
pride  he  has,  helps  himself  as  liberally  to  my 
sandwiches  as  though  they  had  been  his  own. 
Thus  powerfully  aided,  I  soon  arrive  at  the 
end  of  my  dinner,  and,  somehow  or  another, 
leave  off  almost  as  hungry  as  when  I  began. 

A  sudden  running  to  and  fro,  clattering  of 


BARBARA'S   HISTORY. 


13 


hoofs,  and  crowding  up  of  passengers,  now  in- 
dicates the  renewal  of  our  journey.  The  cheer- 
ful family  hurries  back,  looking  very  warm  and 
contented.  The  coachman  clambers  to  the  box, 
and  has  his  last  glass  of  ale  handed  up  to  him. 
The  guard  sounds  a  farewell  blast ;  and  away 
we  go  again,  across  the  market-hill,  and  out 
past  the  bank  and  the  prison,  and  on  once  more 
along  the  dusty  high  road,  with  the  fields  on 
either  side. 

What,  with  the  pleasant  monotony  of  the 
landscape,  and  the  heat  of  the  sunny  summer's 
day,  and  the  general  drowsiness  of  these  and 
other  influences,  we  are  a  very  sleepy  company 
this  afternoon,  and,  unconsciously  polite,  nod  to 
each  other  incessantly.  At  about  four  o'clock 
we  come  to  a  large  town,  where  my  cheerful 
neighbors  are  met  by  a  roomy  double-bodied 
chaise,  and  all  shake  hand  with  me  at  parting. 
Not  so  the  sleek  traveler,  who,  unminSful  of 
the  sandwiches,  jumps  out,  as  the  coach  stops, 
and  goes  his  way  without  a  word. 

Handsome  shops,  wide  streets,  picturesque 
old  houses,  with  projecting  stories  richly  carved, 
solid  public  buildings,  and  glimpses  of  a  noble 
river  fringed  with  trees  and  villas,  impress  me 
with  admiration  as  we  pass,  and  make  up  a 
total  that  is  more  than  commonly  attractive. 
Having  delayed  here  full  half  an  hour,  we  start 
away  again;  and,  just  as  we  begin  to  move,  I 
hear  it  said  that  the  name  of  this  town  is  Ipswich. 

Being,  by  this  time,  very  tired  and  hungry, 
and  quite  alone  in  the  coach,  I  fall  asleep  once 
more,  and,  waking  bewildered  at  every  change 
of  horses,  forget  where  I  am,  and  whither  I  am 
going.  Sometimes,  possessed  with  a  vague  no- 
tion that  I  must  have  slept  for  hours  and  passed 
the  place  long  since,  I  start  up  in  terror,  and 
cry  to  be  let  out ;  but  that  is  when  we  are  going 
at  full  speed,  and  no  one  hears  me.  Thus  two 
more  weary  hours  lag  by,  seeming  as  long  as  all 
the  other  hours  of  the  day  together ;  and  then, 
just  as  dusk  is  coming  on,  we  pass  through  a 
straggling  village,  where  the  blacksmith's  forge 
burns  redly,  and  the  children  in  the  ivied  school- 
house  are  chanting  an  evening  hymn.  Dashing 
on  between  the  straggling  cottages,  and  up  a 
hill  so  closely  shaded  by  thick  trees,  that  the 
dusk  seems  to  thicken  suddenly  to  night,  we 
draw  up  all  at  once  before  a  great  open  gate, 
leading  to  a  house  of  which  I  can  only  see  the 
gabled  outUne  and  the  lighted  windows. 

The  guard  jumps  -down  ;  the  door  is  thrown 
opeia ;  and  two  persons,  a  man  and  woman,  come 
hurrying  down  the  path. 

"  One  little  girl,  and  one  box,  as  per  book," 
says  the  guard,  lifting  me  out,  and  setting  me 
down  in  the  road,  as  if  I  were  but  another  box, 
to  be  delivered  as  directed. 

"  From  London  ?"  asks  the  woman,  sharply. 

"  From  London,"  replies  the  guard,  already 
scrambling  to  his  seat.     "  All   right,  an't  it  ?" 

"  All  right." 

Whereupon  the  coach  plunges  on  again  into 
the  dusk  ;  the  man  shoulders  my  box  as  though 
it  were  a  feather;  and  the  woman,  who  looks 
strangely  gaunt  and  gray  by  this  uncertain  light, 
seizes  me  by  the  wrist,  and  strides  away  toward 
the  house  at  a  pace  that  my  cramped  and  weary 
limbs  can  scarcely  accomplish. 

Sick  and  bewildered,  I  am  hurried  into  a  cheer- 
ful room  where  the  table  is  spread  as  if  for  tea 


and  supper,  and  a  delicious  perfume  of  coffee 
and  fresh  flowers  fills  the  air ;  and — and,  all  at 
once,  even  in  the  moment  when  I  am  first  ob- 
serving them,  these  sights  and  scents  grow  all 
confused  and  sink  away  together,  and  I  remem- 
ber nothing. 

How  long  my  unconsciousness  may  have  last- 
ed I  know  not ;  but  when  I  recover,  I  find  my- 
self laid  upon  a  sofa,  with  my  cloak  and  bon- 
net off",  my  eyes  and  mouth  full  of  Eau  de  Co- 
logne, and  my  hands  smarting  under  a  volley  of 
slaps,  administered  by  a  ruddy  young  woman  on 
one  side,  and  the  same  gaunt  person  who  brought 
me  from  the  coach,  on  the  other.  Seeing  me  look 
up,  they  both  desist;  and  the  latter,  drawing 
back  a  step  or  two,  as  if  to  observe  me  to  greater 
advantage,  puts  on  an  immense  pair  of  heavy 
gold  spectacles,  stares  steadily  for  some  seconds, 
and  at  length  says : 

"  What  did  you  mean  by  that,  now  ?" 

Unprepared  for  so  abrupt  a  question,  I  lie  as 
if  fascinated  by  her  bright  gray  eyes,  and  can 
not  utter  a  syllable. 

"  Are  you  better  ?" 

Still  silent,  I  bow  my  head  feebly^  and  keep 
looking  at  her. 

"  Hey,  now  !  Am  I  a  basilisk  ?  Are  you 
dumb,  child?" 

Wondering  why  she  speaks  to  me  thus,  and 
being,  moreover,  so  very  weak  and  tired,  what 
can  I  do  but  to  try  in  vain  to  answer,  and,  fail- 
ing in  the  effort,  burst  into  tears  again  ?  Here- 
upon she  frowns,  pulls  off  her  glasses,  shakes 
her  head  angrily,  and,  saying — "  That's  done  to 
aggravate  me — I  know  it  is!" — stalks  away  to 
the  window,  and  stands  there  grimly,  looking 
out  upon  the  night.  The  younger  woman,  how- 
ever, with  a  world  of  kindness  in  her  rosy  face, 
touches  my  wet  cheeks  tenderly  with  her  rough 
hands,  dries  my  tears  upon  her  apron,  and  bend- 
ing low  with  her  finger  to  her  lips,  whispers  me 
"  not  to  cry." 

"  That  child's  hungry,"  says  the  other,  coming 
suddenly  back.  "  That's  what's  the  matter  with 
her.  She's  hungry.  I  know  she  is,  and  I  won't 
be  contradicted.  Do  you  hear  me,  Jane?  — 
I  won't  be  contradicted." 

"  Indeed,  ma'am,  I  think  she  is  hungry,"  re- 
plies Jane.    "  And  tired,  too,  poor  little  thing !" 

"  Tired  and  hungry  —  Mercy  alive  !  then 
why  don't  she  eat?  Here's  food  enough  for  a 
dozen  people !  Child,  what  will  you  have  ? 
Ham — cold  chicken-pie — bread — butter—cheese 
— tea — coffee — ale  ?" 

Too  faint  to  speak  aloud  even  now,  I  rather 
express  the  word  "  Coffee  "  by  the  motion  of  my 
lips  than  whisper  it ;  and  having  done  this,  lie 
back  wearily  and  close  my  eyes. 

The  first  step  is  the  great  effort ;  but,  being 
fed  and  waited  upon  by  the  younger  womangi 
soon  get  better  and  braver,  and  am  able  to  m. 
up  and  be  helped  to  a  slice  of  chicken-pie. 
From  pie  to  ham,  from  ham  to  a  second  cup  of 
coffee,  and  from  the  second  cup  of  coffee  to 
more  pie,  are  transitions  easily  understood,  and 
pleasantly  accomplished.  Every  thing  tastes  de- 
licious; and  not  even  the  sight  of  the  gaunt 
housekeeper,  who  sits  all  the  time  at  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  table  with  her  chin  resting  in 
the  palms  of  her  hands,  and  her  eyes  fixed  im- 
movably upon  me,  has  power  to  spoil  my  enjoy- 
ment. 


14 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


For  she  is  the  housekeeper  beyond  a  doubt. 
Those  heavy  gold  spectacles,  that  sad-colored 
gown,  that  cap  with  it^  plain,  close  bordering, 
can  belong  to  no  one  but  a  housekeeper.  Won- 
dering within  myself  why  she  should  be  so  dis- 
agreeable ;  and  why,  being  so  disagreeable,  my 
aunt  should  keep  her  in  her  service ;  then  won- 
dering where  my  aunt  herself  can  be  ;  why  she 
has  not  yet  come  to  welcome  me ;  how  she  will 
receive  me  when  she  does  cbme ;  and  whether  I 
shall  have  presence  of  mind  enough  to  remem- 
ber all  the  courtesies  I  have  been  drilled  to  make, 
and  all  the  speeches  I  have  been  taught  to  say, 
I  find  myself  eating  as  if  nothing  at  all  had  been 
tKe  matter  with  me,  and  even  staring  now  and 
then  quite  confidently  at  my  opposite  neighbor. 

My  meal  over,  and  the  funereal  silence,  in 
which  it  has  been  conducted,  remaining  still 
unbroken,  Jane  clears  the  table,  closes  out  the 
dark  night,  trims  the  lamp,  wheels  my  sofa  over 
to  the  fireside  and  is  seen  no  more.  Left  alone 
now  with  the  sleeping  dogs  and  the  house- 
keeper— who  looks  as  if  she  never  slept  in  her 
life — I  find  the  evening  wearisome.  Observing, 
too,  that  she  continues  to  look  at  me  in  the 
same  grim,  imperturbable  way,  and  seeing  no 
books  anywhere  about,  it  occurs  to  me  that  a 
little  conversation  would,  perhaps,  be  accept- 
able ;  and  that,  as  I  am  her  mistress's  niece,  it 
is  my  place  to  speak  first. 

"  If  you  please,  ma'am,"  I  begin,  after  a  long 
hesitation. 

"Hey!" 

Somewhat  disconcerted  by  the  sharpness  and 
suddenness  of  this  interruption,  I  pause,  and 
take  some  moments  to  recover  myself. 

"  If  you  please,  ma'am,  when  am  I  to  see  my 
aunt?" 

"Hey?    What?     Who?" 

"  My  aunt,  if  you  please,  ma'am." 

"  Mercy  alive  !  And  pray  who  do  you  suppose 
I  am  ?" 

"  You,  ma'am,"  I  faltered,  with  a  vague  un- 
easiness impossible  to  describe.  "Are  you  — 
are  you  not  the  housekeeper  ?" 

To  say  that  she  glares  vacantly  at  me  from  be- 
hind her  spectacles,  loses  her  very  power  of 
speech,  and  grows,  all  at  once,  quite  stiff  and 
rigid  in  her  chair,  is  to  convey  but  a  faint  picture 
of  the  amazement  with  which  she  receives  this 
observation. 

"  I !"  she  gasps  at  length.  "I!  Gracious  me, 
child !  — /am  your  aunt." 

I  feel  my  countenance  become  an  utter  blank. 
I  am  conscious  of  turning  red  and  white,  hot  and 
cold,  all  in  one  moment.  My  ears  tingle ;  my 
heart  sinks  within  me ;  I  can  neither  speak  nor 
think.  A  dreadful  silence  follows,  and  in  the 
midst  of  this  silence,  my  aunt,  without  any  kind 
ofcwarning,  bursts  into  a  grim  laugh,  and  says : — 
▼'  Barbara,  come  and  kiss  me." 

I  could  have  kissed  a  kangaroo  just  then,  in 
the  intensity  of  my  relief;  and  so,  getting  up 
quite  readily,  touch  her  gaunt  cheek  with  my 
childish  lips,  and  look  the  gratitude  I  dare  not 
speak.  To  my  surprise,  she  draws  me  closer 
to  her  knee,  passes  one  thin  hand  idly  through 
my  hair,  looks,  not  unkindly,  into  my  wonder- 
ing eyes,  and  murmurs,  more  to  herself  than  me, 
the  name  of  "  Barbara ! " 

This  gentle  mood,  however,  is  soon  dismissed  ; 
and,  as  if  ashamed  of  having  indulged  it,  she 


pushes  me  away,  frowns,  shakes  her  head,  and 
says,  quite  angrily: 

"  Nonsense,  child.  Nonsense  !  It's  time  you 
went  to  bed." 

And  so,  with  Jane's  good  help,  to  bed  I  go, 
and  thankfully,  too  ;  for  I  never  was  so  weary 
in  my  life. 

It  is  a .  large  room,  and  a  large  bed  stands  in 
the  center  of  it  —  a  bed  so  soft  and  so  extensive 
that  I  disappear  altogether  in  its  mighty  depths, 
and  am  lost  till  morning. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MY    AUNT    AND    I    BECOME    BETTER    ACQUAINTED. 

Jours  nliifs,  plaisirs  purs,  emportes  par  le  temps !" 

J.  Reboul. 

"  Your  name,"  said  my  aunt,  with  a  little  off- 
hand nod,  "  is  Bab.     Remember  that. " 

She  looked  grimmer  than  ever,  sitting  up  so 
stifily  behind  the  tea-urn ;  and  this  was  all  the 
morning  salutation  she  vouchsafed  me.  A  vacant 
chair  awaited  me  at  the  foot  of  the  table  —  such 
a  chair  1  It  had  a  high,  straight,  carved  back, 
and  huge  elbows,  to  which  my  chin  just  reached, 
and  legs  like  bed-posts,  which,  as  they  were  very 
long,  and  mine  very  short,  left  my  feet  dan- 
gling half  a  yard  from  the  ground.  Unpleasant- 
ly conscious  of  my  own  diminutiveness,  and  still 
more  unpleasantly  conscious  of  my  aunt's  keen 
eyes,  I  endeavored  to  fill  this  piece  of  furniture 
as  best  I  could,  and  to  l6ok  as  tall  as  possible. 

"  Bab,"  said  my  aunt,  "  what  made  you  take 
me  for  the  housekeeper  ?" 

I  had  begun  breakfast  with  a  tolerable  appre- 
ciation of  the  good  things  before  me  ;  but  this 
question  took  away  my  appetite  at  a  blow. 

"  I — I — I  don't  know,  ma'am,"  I  repUed,  fal- 
teringly. 

"Nonsense,  Bab.  You  know  well  enough. 
I  see  it  in  your  face — and  I  won't  be  contra- 
dicted !" 

"  If — if  you  please,  ma'am " 

"  No,  I  don't  please.  What  made  you  take 
me  for  the  housekeeper  ?     Was  it  my  dress  ?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,  I  think  so." 

"  Too  shabby— hey  ?" 

"N-no,  ma'am — ^not  shabby  ;  but " 

"  But  what  ?  You  must  learn  to  speak  out, 
Bab.     I  hate  people  who  hesitate." 

"  But  papa  said  you  were  so  rich,  and " 

"  Ah !  He  said  I  was  wch,  did  he  ?  Rich  ! 
Oho  !  And  what  more,  Bab  ?  What  more  ?  l^ich 
indeed  !  Come,  you  must  tell  me  !  What  else 
did  he  say  when  he  told  you  I  was  rich  ?" 

"  N-n-nothing  more,  ma'am,"  I  replied,  startled 
and  confused  by  her  sudden  vehemence.  "  In- 
deed, nothing  more." 

"  Bab,"  said  my  aunt,  bringing  her  hand  down 
upon  the  table  so  heavily  that  the  cups  and  sau- 
cers rang  again,  "Bab,  that's  false.  If  he  told 
you  I  was  rich,  he  told  you  how  to  get  my  money 
by  and  by.  He  told  you  to  cringe,  and  fawn, 
and  pay  court  to  me — to  worm  yourself  into  my 
favor — to  profit  by  my  death — to  be  a  liar,  a 
flatterer,  and  a  beggar  !  And  why  ?  Because  I 
am  rich  !     Oh,  yes  !  because  I  am  rich  !" 

I  sat  as  if  stricken  into  stone  ;  but  half  com- 
prehending what  she  meant,  and  unable  to  an- 
swer a  syllable. 

"  Rich,  indeed!"    she  went  on,  excited  more 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


15 


and  more  by  her  own  words,  and  stalking  to  and 
fro  between  the  window  and  the  table,  like  one 
possessed.  "  Aha !  we  shall  see  !  We  shall  see  ! 
Listen  to  me,  child.  I  shall  leave  you  nothing 
—  not  a  farthing!  Never  expect  it  —  never 
hope  for  it  !  If  you  are  good,  and  true,  and  I 
like  you,  I  shall  be  a  friend  to  you  while  I  live ; 
but  if  you  are  mean,  and  false,  and  tell  me  lies, 
I  shall  despise  you — do  you  hear  ?  I  shall  de- 
spise you — send  you  home — never  speak  to  you, 
or  look  at  you  again  !  Either  way,  you  will  get 
nothing  by  my  death  !  Nothing  —  nothing  — 
nothing  !" 

My  heart  swelled  within  me — I  shook  from 
head  to  foot— I  tried  to  speak,  and  the  words 
seemed  to  choke  me. 

"  I  don't  want  it !"  I  cried,  passionately.  "  I — 
I  am  not  mean !   I  have  told  no  lies — not  one  !" 

My  aunt  stopped  short,  and  looked  sternly 
down  upon  me,  as  if  she  would  read  fiiy  very 
soul. 

"  Bab,"  said  she,  "  do  you  mean  to  tell  me 
that  your  father  said  nothing  to  you  about  why 
I  may  have  asked  you  here,  or  what  might  come 
of  it  ?    Nothing  ?     Not  a  word  ?" 

"  He  said  it  might  be  for  my  good — he  told 
Miss  Whymper  to  make  me  courtesy  and  walk 
better,  and  come  into  a  room  properly — he  said 
he  wished  me  to  please  you.  That  was  all !  He 
never  spoke  of  money,  or  of  dying,  or  of  telling 
lies — never  !"  ^ 

"  Well,  then,  he  meant  it !"  retorted  my  aunt, 
sharply.     "  He  meant  it !" 

Flushed  and  trembling  in  my  childish  anger, 
I  sprang  from  my  chair  and  stood  before  her, 
face  to  face. 

"  He  did  not  mean  it !"  I  cried.  "  How  dare 
you  speak  so  of  Papa  ?     How  dare " 

I  could  say  no  more,  but,  terrified  at  my  own 
impetuosity,  faltered,  covered  my  face  with  both 
hands,  and  burst  into  an  agony  of  sobs. 

"  Bab,"  said  my  aunt,  in  an  altered  voice, 
*'  little  Bab !"  and  took  me  all  at  once  in  her 
two  arms,  and  kissed  me  on  the  forehead. 

My  anger  was  gone  in  a  moment.  Something 
in  her  tone,  in  her  kiss,  in  my  own  heart,  called 
up  a  quick  response  ;  and,  nestling  close  in  her 
embrace,  I  wept  passionately.  Then  she  sat 
down,  drew  me  on  her  knee,  smoothed  my  hair 
with  her  hand,  and  comforted  me  as  if  I  had 
been  a  little  baby. 

"  So  brave,"  said  she,  "  so  proud,  so  honest ! 
Come,  little  Bab,  you  and  I  must  be  friends." 

And  we  were  friends,  from  that  minute  ;  for, 
from  that  minute,  a  mutual  confidence  and  love 
sprang  up  between  us.  Too  deeply  moved  to 
answer  her  in  words,  I  only  clung  the  closer, 
and  tried  to  still  my  sobs.  She  understood 
me. 

"  Come,"  said  she,  after  a  few  seconds  of 
silence.     "  Let's  go  and  see  the  pigs." 

■  And  with  this  she  disengaged  my  arms  from 
about  her  neck,  set  me  down  abruptly,  and  rang 
the  bell. 

*'  My  pigs,  Bab,"  said  she,  "  are  my  hobby. 
I've  a  hundred  of  them  out  yonder,  waiting  to 
be  fed.  I  always  keep  a  "hundred,  and  I  see 
them  fed  myself,  twice  a  day.  Won't  you  like 
to  go  with  me  ?" 

"  Oh  !  yes,  ma'am,  very  much." 

"  Don't  call  me  ma/ am.  I  don't  like  it.  Call 
me  aunt.     Jane,  bring  my  boots  and  whip." 


The  whip  was  a  short  strong  whip,  with  a 
leather  thong,  and  the  boots  were  the  most 
amazing  boots  I  ever  saw.  Jane  brought  them, 
quite  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  my  aunt  put 
them  on.  They  had  iron  heels,  and  soles  half- 
an-inch  thick,  and  reached,  moreover,  a  long 
way  above  her  ankles.  They  looked  as  though 
they  might  Ijave  been  Wellingtons,  originally, 
cut  a  trifle  shorter,  and  opened  down  .the  fronts 
to  admit  of  being  buttoned.  These  on,  my  aunt 
proceeded  to  tie  up  the  skirt  of  her  dress  all 
round,  and  completed  her  toilet  by  the  addi- 
tion of  a  huge  green  silk  bonnet  and  vail,  which 
hung  on  a  peg  in  the  hall. 

"  You  see,  Bab,"  said  she,  "  I  am  a  farmer. 
My  property  lies  in  farms.  I  cultivate  this  one, 
and  I  let  the  rest.  I  attend  to  my  business  my- 
self ;  and  as  I  never  do  any  thing  by  halves,  I 
buy,  sell,  go  to  market,  keep  my  own  books, 
and  trust  to  nobody's  eyes  but  my  own.  Some 
folks  laugh  about  it ;  but  I  let  them  laugh,  and 
wish  them  better  amusement.  This  is  my 
orchard,  and  yonder  is  the  stack-yard ;  but  we 
are  not' going  there  just  now.  The  pigs  are 
waiting." 

Saying  which,  my  aunt  led  the  way  across  a 
broad  grassy  space,  where  the  turkeys  were 
^rutting  along  with  their  heads  in  the  air,  and 
the  hens  were  cackling  about  with  broods  of 
little  yellow  chickens  at  their  heels,  and  the 
fruit  trees  made  a  green  shade  overhead.  I 
could  have  staid  in  this  delightful  place  for 
hours ;  but  my  aunt  took  me  through  a  little 
gate  to  the  left,  and  across  a  yard  where  a  boy 
was  chopping  wood,  and  then  through  another 
gate  into  another  yard  which  was  littered  all 
over  with  straw,  and  built  round  with  neat 
brick  sties,  and  as  full  of  pigs  as  ever  it  could 
hold. 

"  There  they  are  I"  said  she,  with  grim  satis- 
faction.    "  There  they  are  !" 

There  they  were,  indeed  —  pigs  of  all  sizes, 
ages,  and  tempers.  Black  pigs,  white  pigs, 
spotted  pigs,  little  pigs,  big  pigs,  fat  pigs,  lean 
pigs,  pigs  with  curly  tails,  and  pigs  with  no 
tails  at  all.  Quiet  enough  till  we  came  into  the 
yard,  they  no  sooner  beheld  my  aunt's  green 
bonnet  than  they  broke  into  the  most  appalling 
chorus  imaginable,  and  came  rushing  up  to  us 
with  an  alacrity  that  soon  brought  the  whip  into 
service,  and  sent  some  of  them  shrieking  away. 
But  to  see  them  fed  was  the  great  sight — to 
watch  the  perpetual  replenishment  of  the  great 
round  troughs ;  the  circles  of  tails,  uplifted  and 
quivering  with  excitement ;  the  playful  disturb- 
ances that  broke  out  now  and  then  among  the 
younger  members  of  the  company,  and  the 
friendly  bites,  flights  and  scuffles  that  diversified 
the  graver  interests  of  the  performance. 

Meanwhile,  my  aunt  stalked  about  with  1^ 
whip  in  her  hand ;  inspected  the  condition  OT 
the  sties,  and  the  quality  of  the  food  ;  rated  the 
farm  servants  ;  discussed  the  question  of  bean- 
meal  and  pea-meal ;  gave  orders  that  one  youth- 
ful family  should  have  their  noses  ringed ;  con- 
demned two  hapless  porkers  of  middle  growth  to 
solitary  confinement ;  and  ended  by  taking  me 
round  to  visit  a  very  fierce  dowager  in  an  ad- 
joining yard,  who  had  the  evening  before  pre- 
sented society  with  no  less  than  fifteen  little 
ones,  as  black  as  jet,  and  not  much  bigger  than 
kittens. 


16 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


Having  dismissed  the  pigs,  we  went  into  the 
Btables  and  then  round  to  the  bullock  yard  ; 
and,  after  that,  went  a  long  way  off  to  a  clover- 
field  lying  on  the  slope  of  a  hill,  where  we  saw 
the  sheep  and  the  little  white  lambs  all  feeding 
and  gamboling  about,  to  the  number  of  three 
hundred  and  more.  And  throughout  all  this 
ramble,  my  aunt's  vigilant  eyes  were  on  every 
thing  and  every  body.  Nothing  escaped  her ; 
and  not  a  servant  on  all  the  land  but  started 
into  activity  at  her  approach,  and  seemed  to  re- 
gard her  not  only  with  respect,  but  with  some 
degree  of  terror. 

At  twelve  o'clock  we  came  home  to  lunch ;  at 
four  we  dined ;  and  after  dinner,  my  aunt  put 
the  Times  into  my  hands,  and  desired  me  to 
read  the  debates  while  she  sat  and  knitted  in 
her  easy  chair.  It  was  not  amusing,  but  I 
acquitted  myself  creditably,  and  was  praised  for 
my  enunciation.  Having  had  tea  at  seven,  we 
strolled  about  the  gardens  and  orchard  till  near- 
ly nine  ;  and  then  I  was  sent  to  bed.  Such  was 
my  first  day  at  Stoneycroft  Hall  ;  and  such  was 
every  day  for  weeks  and  months  after.'  Some- 
times we  spent  an  evening  at  the  parsonage — 
sometimes  the  vicar  or  the  doctor  dropped  in  to 
tea;  but,  with  these  slight  variations,  the  pro- 
,  gramme  remained  imaltered.  After  a  few 
weeks,  my  aunt  taught  me  the  leading  rules  of 
whist,  and  we  played  at  double-dummy  regularly 
for  an  hour  after  tea.  It  was  a  quiet  life,  but  a 
very  happy  one — all  the  happier  for  its  mono- 
tony, and  all  the  pleasanter  for  its  seclusion. 
The  calm,  the  good  air,  the  early  hours,  and  all 
the  circumstances  of  the  change,  seemed  to 
strengthen  and  improve  me.  Every  sight  and 
sound  of  farm-yard  or  field  delighted  me. 
Every  hour  was  a  holiday — every  breath  enjoy- 
ment. Cured  of  my  solitary  habits,  I  grew 
daily  more  fresh  and  childlike,  and  more  ac- 
cessible to  pleasant  influences.  To  be  released 
from  Miss  Whymper's  government  and  my 
sisters'  petty  tyranny  was  much ;  but  to  live 
amongst  green  trees  and  kindly  faces  was  even 
more.  Day  by  day,  my  aunt  and  I  became 
better  acquainted — day  by  day  I  loved  her  and 
the  old  house,  and  all  the  surroundings  of  the 
place,  more  and  more  dearly.  And  this  reminds 
me  that  I  have  not  yet  described  Stoneycroft  Hall. 

Why  it  should  ever  have  been  called  Stoney- 
croft Hall  was  altogether  a  mystery.  A  more 
inappropriate  name  could  scarcely  have  been 
found  for  it,  since  it  was  justified  by  no  trace  of 
barrenness,  by  no  poverty  of  soil,  by  no  frag- 
ment of  rock  or  boulder  anywhere  about.  On 
the  contrary,  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  find 
in  all  the  county  a  district  more  productive,  or 
more  highly  cultivated.  The  great  heaths,  it  is 
true,  were  in  the  neighborhood — vast  sweeps  of 
uj^dulating  moorland  many  miles  in  length, 
which  traversed  twelve  or  fourteen  parishes, 
and  ended  at  last  upon  that  wave-worn  coast 
where  the  tides  of  the  German  ocean  ebb  and 
flow  between  England  and  the  shores  of  Holland. 
But  these  heaths  lay  at  a  considerable  distance, 
and  were  not  within  sight  from  even  our  upper- 
most windows.  They  might  have  been  a  hun- 
dred miles  away,  for  any  show  of  waste  land 
thereabout,  and  could  scarcely  have  influenced 
the  naming  of  Stoneycroft  Hall. 

It  was  a  fine  old  Elizabethan  homestead,  and, 
in  spite  of  its  hard  name,  the  very  type  of  an 


ample,  hospitable  English  dwelling.  A  little 
formal  pencil  sketch  which  I  made  of  the  place 
a  few  days  after  my  first  arrival,  lies  before  me 
as  I  write.  Meagre  and  childlike  though  it  be, 
it  yet  brings  back  every  quaint  carving,  every 
curved  gable,  twisted  chimney,  and  fantastic 
weather-cock,  as  vividly  as  though  they  were  the 
impressions  of  yesterday.  There  is  the  dear 
old  porch  with  its  environment  of  red  and 
amber  roses — there  the  window  of  my  great 
formal  bed-chamber — there  the  garret  whither  I 
so  often  stole  away  with  my  pencil  and  my 
books,  and,  from  its  narrow  casement,  watched 
the  harmless  lightnings  of  the  summer  dusk. 
Far  and  away,  all  round  about  the  house,  stud- 
ded by  farm-buildings,  varied  by  slopes  and 
hollows,  relieved  by  patches  of  brown  fallow 
and  tracts  of  radiant  green,  lay  the  pleasant 
Suffolk  landscape.  Our  garden-gate  opened  on 
the  highway — the  church-spire  peeped  above  the 
pollard-oaks  close  by — the  pond  stood  in  a 
grassy. angle  a  few  yards  down  the  road.  To 
the  left  (sheltered  by  a  group  of  picturesque 
old  trees,  with  knotted  roots,  and  weird,  wild- 
looking  branches),  lay  the  great  pond,  where 
the  cattle  were  driven  in  to  the  water  every 
evening,  and  many  a  traveler  staid  his  horse 
to  drink.  To  the  right,  we  were  inclosed  by 
the  stacks  and  out-houses.  To  the  westward, 
skirting  a  ridge  of  rising-ground  and  filling  the 
valley  beyond  with  rich  masses  of  rounded 
foliage,  extended  the  park  and  preserves  of 
Broomhill ;  while,  farther  away,  in  the  midst  of 
a  stretch  of  open  country,  a  bare  gaunt  poplar, 
with  its  lower  branches  lopped  and  only  a  few 
stray  leaves  left  fluttering  at  the  top,  started  up 
to  an  unusual  hight,  and  served  as  one  of  the 
landmarks  of  the  place.  Concealed  amid  the 
plantations  behind  it,  nestled  a  small  white 
building,  known  as  the  Poplar  Farm. 

Such  was  the  house,  and  such  the  neighbor- 
hood in  which  my  aunt  resided.  It  was  no  un- 
usual scene.  It  would  have  interested  the 
painter  less  than  the  agriculturist,  and  by  many, 
perhaps,  have  been  deemed  but  a  tame  specimen 
of  even  so  tame  a  county  as  Suffolk.  But  I 
loved  it.  It  possessed  for  me,  at  that  impression- 
able age,  a  novelty  and  a  charm  beyond  the 
power  of  words  to  utter.  I  studied  it  with  a 
painter's  instinct  under  every  aspect  of  the  year 
and  all  the  moods  of  nature.  Every  thatched 
roof,  every  column  of  blue  smoke,  every  lane, 
and  drift,  and  hedgerow,  contributed  its  own 
share  of  interest  to  the  landscape.  To  watch 
the  sunset  burning  through  the  boughs  of  the 
park  trees,  or  the  moonlight  setting  them  in 
bronzed  relief  against  the  placid  sky  ;  to  linger 
in  the  meadows  till  the  very  bursting  of  the 
purple  storm-cloud ;  to  lie  at  the  foot  of  some 
far-spreading  oak,  and  gaze  up  through  the 
shifting  leaves  at  the  blue  sky  above  ;  or  on  a 
summer's  morning,  to  watch  the  waving  wheat 
and  rippling  barley — these  were  among  my 
keenest  enjoyments.  The  good  which  they 
worked,  and  the  tastes  which  they  assisted  to 
develop,  have  remained  with  me  ever  since. 
Familiar  with  every  school  of  beauty,  with 
scenes  consecrated  in  song  and  associated  with 
history,  I  can  yet  turn  to  the  contemplation  of 
this  homely  English  pastoral  with  a  freshness  of 
admiration  that  never  fades,  and  a  love  that 
knows  no  change. 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


ir 


CHAPTER  V. 

BROOMHILL  AND   ITS   OWNERS. 

•'  Mark  yon  old  mansion  frowning  through  the  trees." 

Rogers. 

About  a  mile  to  the  east  of  Stoneycroft  Hall, 
ky  the  park,  mansion,  and  domains  known  col- 
lectively as  Broomhill.  The  estate  took  its 
name  from  a  picturesque  sand-crag  which  rose 
to  a  considerable  hight  at  the  back  of  the  house 
and  was  all  overgrown  with  furze  and  wavy 
ferns.  The  park,  without  being  extensive,  was 
finely  situated ;  possessed  some  natural  advan- 
tages ;  was  broken  up  into  dells  and  slopes,  re- 
lieved by  occasional  gleams  of  water,  and  in- 
terspersed with  oaks  and  cedars  that  were  said 
to  have  been  saplings  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth. 
Beyond  the  park  lay  a  long  line  of  plantations, 
and  a  tract  of  undulating  common  that^eached 
away  for  more  than  three  miles  in  the  direction 
of  Normanbridge.  Normanbridge,  be  it  ob- 
served, was  the  nearest  market-town. 

Antique,  irregular,  moated,  and  surmounted 
by  a  forest  of  quaint  chimneys,  the  Hall  at 
Broomhill  was  altogether  a  composite  piece  of 
architecture.  It  lay  low  in  a  warm  hollow,  sur- 
rounded by  foliage  and  sheltered  from  all  the 
winds  of  heaven.  Begun  about  the  year  1496, 
and  carried  on  from  century  to  century  with 
such  deviations  from  the  original  design  as  each 
successive  owner  was  pleased  to  make,  it  could 
not  be  said  to  belong  to  any  special  order  of 
architecture,  but  was  a  mixture  of  many.  The 
octagonal  tower,  the  bell-turret,  and  the  whole 
of  the  east  front,  dated  from  the  time  of  the 
early  Tudors.  The  north  wing,  with  its  un- 
sightly pediment  and  awkward  Corinthian 
pilasters,  was  erected  during  the  reign  of  James 
I.,  and  designed  by  Inigo  Jones.  The  courtyard, 
stone  gateway,  and  offices  were  specimens  of  the 
worst  Renaissance  school ;  and  the  lodges  were 
rustic  Italian.  If  there  ever  was  a  plan,  it  had 
been  abandoned  and  forgotten  since  the  com- 
pletion of  the  earliest  part  of  the  building. 
Indeed,  it  almost  seemed  as  if  the  masters  of 
Broomhill  had  striven,  each  in  the  fashion  of 
his  day,  to  encumber  the  old  place  with  just 
whatever  novelty  was  least  in  harmony  with  all 
that  had  gone  before.  Still  it  was  as  interest- 
ing a  specimen  of  domestic  architecture  as  one 
would  wish  to  find ;  picturesque  by  reason  of 
its  very  incongruity;  and,  in  the  fullest  sense 
of  the  word,  historic. 

Conferred  in  fief  upon  some  remote  ancestor 
of  the  time  of  the  Norman  Kings,  this  estate 
had  remained  in  the  hands  of  his  descendants 
for  long  centuries  before  a  stone  of  the  present 
edifice  was  laid.  Given  to  a  Farquhar,  a  Far- 
quhar  had  held  it  ever  since.  There  had  never 
been  a  title  in  the  family,  and  they  prided 
themselves  upon  it.  Independent  Esquires, 
they  had  uniformly  declined  the  lesser  honors 
of  nobility,  and  would  not  exchange  the  name 
and  style  of  Farquhar  of  Broomhill  for  any  rank 
below  the  peerage.  They  were  not  rich ;  but 
their  descent  was  pure,  and  their  honor  un- 
blemished. A  Farquhar,  followed  by  his  fifty 
lances,  fought  with  distinction  in  the  third 
crusade  under  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion,  and  was 
present  at  the  siege  of  Acre.  A  Farquhar  of 
the  sixteenth  century  held  a  command  under 
Sir  Francis  Drake,  and  was  not  only  one 
B 


of  the  few  among  that  gallant  crew  who  return- 
ed to  tell  of  a  voyage  round  the  world,  but 
even  bore  a  share  in  the  pursuit  of  the  Spanish 
Armada,  The  second  Charles,  in  his  long  exile, 
had  few  adherents  more  faithful  than  one  James 
Farquhar  of  Broomhill,  who  mortgaged  his  lands 
and  melted  his  plate  for  the  king's  service,  and 
was  afterward  rewarded  with  a  captaincy  in 
his  majesty's  new  regiment  of  Coldstream  Guards. 
True  to  the  line  of  the  Stuarts,  a  Farquhar  was 
one  of  the  first  to  follow  the  fortunes  of  the 
Pretender,  and  one  of  the  last  to  abandon  them. 
Later  still,  two  of  the  house,  father  and  son, 
fought  for  Charles  Edward  on  the  fatal  field  of 
Culloden,  and  fell  side  by  side,  just  as  his  officers 
forced  the  prince  away.  Having  by  these  means 
narrowly  escaped  the  forfeiture  of  their  estates, 
the  Farquhar  family  lived  henceforth  in  strict 
retirement,  mingling  but  little  in  political  or 
military  questions,  and,  for  the  most  part,  de- 
voting their  attention  to  agricultural  pursuits. 
To  improve,  to  build,  to  cultivate,  to  purchase, 
had  now  been  for^  more  than  three  quarters  of 
a  century  the  pridi  and  pleasure  of  the  masters 
of  Broomhill.  Profiting  by  the  economy  of 
seclusion,  they  had  added  more  than  one  "farm 
to  the  heritage  of  their  Norman  predecessors, 
enlarged  their  preserves,  and  extended  '  the 
boundaries  of  their  park  whenever  the  sale  of 
adjacent  lands  enabled  them  to  do  so.  How 
they  had  contended  with  my  great  grandfather 
for  the  purchase  of  Stoneycroft  Hall ;  and  how 
being  defeated,  they  had  ever  since  looked  with 
a  jealous  eye  upon  those  rich  six  hundred  acres 
which  would  have  added  so  materially  to  the 
value  and  importance  of  their  own  estates, 
was  a  story  which  my  aunt  delighted  to  re- 
late. Somehow  or  another  she  disliked  the 
Farquhar  family.  Not  a  deed  that  they  had 
done,  riot  an  honor  that  they  had  achieved, 
found  fa'^or  in  her  sight.  To  all  that  concerned 
them  she  was  rootedly  antagonistic  ;  and  there 
was  not  one  of  the  name,  from  its  earliest  to  its 
latest  representative,  of  whom  she  could  speak 
without  prejudice.  In  all  parish  or  county 
matters,  she  opposed  their  views  on  principle ; 
and  at  election  times  it  needed  but  the  interest 
of  a  Farquhar  in  one  scale  to  throw  all  the 
weight  of  her  influence  into  the  other.  Thus, 
because  they  were  Tories  and  advocated  Church 
and  State  principles,  my  aunt  inclined  to  Liberal 
views,and  was  hard  upon  Parliamentary  Bishops ; 
while,  for  no  other  reason  than  the  devotion 
of  their  ancestors  to  the  cause  of  the  Stuarts, 
her  hero  of  heroes  was  of  course  the  Prince  of 
Orange. 

"  The  Farquhars,  indeed  !"  she  used  testily  to 
exclaim.  "Don't  speak  to  me  of  the  Farquhars ! 
I'm  tired  of  hearing  about  their  musty  ancestors, 
and  their  Jacobite  nonsense,  and  their  trumpery 
pride.  There  hasn't  been  an  ounce  of  brains 
in  the  family  these  two  hundred  years,  Bab,  and 
that's  all  about  it.  The  old  man  was  a  fool — 
the  last  man  was  a  fool — and  the  present  man 
is  a  fool,  or  mad.  Mad,  I  think.  Mad  as  a 
March  hare,  Bab ;  and  you  may  take  my  word 
for  it !" 

I  did  not  take  her  word  for  it,  however,  but, 
having  heard  various  opinions  on  the  subject, 
entertained  quite  other  views  with  respect  to 
the  sanity  and  capacity  of  the  present  master  of 
Broomhill. 


18 


BARBARA'S   HISTORY. 


Hugh  Farquhar  happened  to  be  abroad, 
making  what  was  then  called  the  "grand  tour," 
when  his  father's  sudden  death  left  him  without 
any  close  tie  or  near  relation  in  the  world.  The 
news  reached  him  at  Genoa,  and,  to  the  amaze- 
ment of  all  the  parish,  failed  to  bring  him  home. 
Instead  of  posting  back  to  England,  he  took 
ship  for  the  East,  and  had  remained  absent  ever 
since.  The  house  was  shut  up ;  the  park  gates 
were  closed ;  the  servants  paid  off  or  pensioned, 
according  to  their  age  and  services.  A  house- 
keeper and  one  or  two  maids  were  left  in  charge 
of  the  mansion.  A  single  gardener  kept  the 
walks  and  pastures  from  desolation.  Year  after 
year  thus  went  by.  Grass  grew  in  the  spacious 
avenues,  and  stonecrop  along  the  coping  of  the 
garden  walls.  Birds  built  in  the  clustered  chim- 
neys whence  no  smoke  issued.  Rust  gathered  on 
the  hinges  of  gates  which  were  never  opened 
except  to  the  lawyer  or  the  steward.  Still  the 
lord  of  Broomhill  showed  no  care  to  revisit  the 
home  of  his  fathers  ;  and,  at  the  time  when  I 
first  became  an  inmate  of  Stoneycroft  Hall,  his 
voluntary  exile  had  lasted  for  nearly  five  years. 

Tales  of  recklessness  and  profusion,  of  wild 
adventure,  and  of  travels  extended  far  beyond 
the  beaten  routes,  were  told  of  him  throughout 
the  county.  That  he  had  been  heard  of  in 
Grand  Cairo,  and  seen  in  Jerusalem  —  that  he 
had  boated  up  the  Nile,  and  cut  his  name  on  the 
summit  of  the  great  Pyramid — that  he  had  turn- 
ed Mohammedan — that  he  had  married  a  Per- 
sian princess  with  her  own  weight  in  gold  and 
jewels  for  her  dower — that  he  had  fraternized 
with  some  savage  Tartar  tribe,  and  was  living, 
a  chieftain  among  chieftains,  somewhere  in 
Thibet  —  that,  like  Lord  Byron,  he  had  taken 
arms  in  the  Greek  cause ;  and  that,  like  Lady 
Hester  Stanhope,  he  had  become  a  dweller  in 
Arabian  tents,  were  among  the  leaet  injprobable 
of  these  reports.  How  eagerly  I  listened  to 
rumors  which  possessed  for  me  more  than  the 
fascination  of  romance;  how,  in  my  childish 
way,  I  associated  his  name  with  those  of  my  fa- 
vorite heroes ;  how  I  compared  him  with  Sinbad 
and  Don  Quixote,  Tom  Jones,  Prince  Camaral- 
zaman  and  Robinson  Crusoe,  needs  scarcely  to 
be  told  here.  Enough  that  Farquhar  of  Broom- 
hill  became  my  ideal  of  a  preux  chevalier^  and 
that  none  of  my  aunt's  sarcasms  weighed  with 
me  for  a  moment.  Indeed,  I  believe  that  the 
more  he  was  maligned,  the  more  I  admired  him; 
which  added  to  the  romance  and  made  it  nicer 
than  ever.  Nothing  at  this  time  gave  me  more 
delight  than  to  scrawl  imaginary  portraits  of  him 
in  the  fly-leaves  of  my  story  books ;  or,  more 
ambitious  still,  to  cover  whole  sheets  of  fools- 
cap with  cartoons  which  represented  him  in  the 
most  bewitching  fancy  dresses,  and  the  most 
stupendous  situations,  struggling  with  tigers, 
overcoming  crocodiles,  rescuing  distressed  prin- 
cesses, putting  whole  tribes  of  Indians  to  flight, 
and  otherwise  conducting  himself  in  a  gallant 
and  satisfactory  manner. 

Of  all  this,  however,  I  was  careful  to  let  my 
aunt  suspect  nothing.  She  would  surely  have 
laughed  at  me,  and  I  was  keenly  sensitive  to  ridi- 
cule. So  I  cherished  my  romance  in  secret ; 
feeding  my  eager  fancy  with  invention,  and, 
from  day  to  day,  weaving  fresh  incidents  upon 
the  glowing  tapestry  of  my  dreams. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

DOCTOR    TOPHA.M    AND    PAUL   VERONESE. 

"Morning,  Mrs.  Sandyshaft,"  said  Doctor 
Topham.  drawing  rein  at  our  garden-gate  and 
nodding  to  my  aunt,  who  was  pacing  up  and 
down  the  middle  path  with  her  hands  behind 
her  back,  and  the  green  bonnet  inverted  over 
her  eyes  like  a  flower-pot.  "  Famous  weather 
for  the  crops — bad  for  the  markets.  Glass  go- 
ing up — prices  going  down.  Always  two  sides 
to  a  ^question.  Nobody  ever  satisfied — farmers 
especially.     Eh,  Mrs.  S.  ?" 

Now  Doctor  Topham  was  my  aunt's  near 
friend  and  neighbor.  He  never  agreed  with 
her  upon  any  subject  whatever,  and  they  sel- 
dom met  but  they  quarreled;  wherefore,  appar- 
ently, they  only  liked  each  other  the  better. 
Incompatibility  of  taste  and  temper  formed,  in- 
deed, the  bond  of  their  regard,  and  aggravation 
was  the  salt  of  their  intercourse.  Doctor  Top- 
ham was  sallow  and  saturnine,  had  long  legs 
and  a  short  pony,  and  rode  with  an  umbrella. 

"  Humph !  You'd  better  let  farmers  and 
farming  alone,"  replied  my  aunt,  testily.  "  Talk 
of  something  vou  understand,  if  only  for  vari- 
ety." 

"Can't  make  you  my  topic,  then,  Mrs.  S.," 
retorted  the  doctor. 

"  I  take  it,"  said  my  aunt,  "  as  no  honor  to  be 
beyond  ^/ot^r  comprehension." 

Whereupon  the  doctor  scratched  his  ear,  and, 
having  no  repartee  at  hand,  changed  the  subject. 

"Have  you  heard  that  story  about  Hugh  Far- 
quhar and  the  Paul  Veronese  ?"  asked  he. 

"  Yes.     Is  it  tpue  ?" 

"  I  fear  so." 

"  Hah — and  a  genuine  picture  ?" 

"So  they  say;  but  old  masters  are  dangerous 
folks  to  meddle  with.  No  article  going  in  the 
choice  of  which  a  man  may  be  so  cheated  as  a 
picture — or  a  wife." 

"  And  worth  six  thousand  .pounds,  too !" 
ejaculated  my  aunt,  unmindful  of  this  satire  on 
her  sex. 

"  Value  is  one  thing  and  price  another,  Mrs. 
S.,"  said  the  doctor,  drily.  "  Six  thousand  were 
paid  for  it.     Randall  told  me  so." 

"  Extravagant  fool !  Picked  it  up  somewhere 
in  Venice,  did  he  not  ?" 

"I  believe  so," 

"  Six  thousand  pounds  for  a  picture !  Tut, 
tut !  We  shall  have  Broomhill  come  to  the 
hammer  some  day,  at  this  rate  !  The  man's 
mad.  I  always  said  he  was  mad.  Six  thousand 
pounds  for  a  picture  !  Why,  bless  my  soul, 
doctor,  he  could  have  bought  the  Bosmere  pro- 
perty for  that  price !" 

"And  not  have  done  so  well,  perhaps,  after 
all,"  said  Doctor  Topham,  differing  for  the  mere 
sake  of  contradiction.  "  Travelers  see  strange 
tilings,  and  sometimes  do  wise  ones  by  mistake. 
It's  just  possible  that  Farquhar  may  have  given 
six  thousand  for  an  article  worth  twelve." 

"  Doctor,"  said  my  aunt,  emphatically,  "  you're 
a  greater  idiot  than  I  supposed." 

"  Much  obliged,  Mrs.  S.  Happy  to  return  the 
compliment." 

"-And  ought,  at  your  time  of  life,  to  know 
better." 

"My  dear  Madam,  I'm  a  boy — seven  years 
younger  than  yourself." 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


19 


My  aunt  laughed  a  short  dry  laugh  like  a  dou- 
ble knock. 

"You'd  give  your  head,"  said  she,  "to  have 
the  last  word.  Well — to  return  to  the  Paul 
Veronese.  Will  he  send  it  to  Broomhill,  think 
you  ?" 

"Send 'it!     Why,  it  arrived  yesterday!     I 
met  the   procession   myself,    wagon,   packing- 
case,  Randall  and  all.    That's  how  I  come  to 
know  so  much  about  it." 
"And  the  subject?" 

"Deal  boards,  Mrs.  S.,"  said  the  doctor,  with 
a  grin,  "  are  not  generally  transparent ;  and  my 
eyes,  however  piercing,  are  not  gimlets.  Still, 
as  far  as  size  goes,  I  can  relieve  your  mind. 
Our  friend  seems  to  have  got  plenty  for  his 
money." 

"  So  !  a  large  picture  ?" 
"  A  quarter  of  an  acre  of  it,  I  should"  say — 
high  art,  at  so  much  per  cubic  foot." 

My  aunt  shrugged  her  shoulders.  The  doctor 
looked  at  his  watch. 

"Mrs.  Sandyshaft,"  said  he,  "I  have  a  con- 
sultation at  eleven,  and  yoa  have  made  me  lose 
ten  minutes.  By  the  way,  you  know  the  sad  fate 
of  poor  Saunders  ?" 

"  Saunders  ?     No — what  of  him  ?" 
"  It's  all  over  with  him." 
"  Over  with  him — mercy  alive  !  is  the  man 
dead  ?" 

"  Worse,  Mrs.  S.  Married  !" 
And  with  this  Dr.  Topham  drew  up  his 
knees,  put  spurs  to  the  pony,  and  trotted  away 
at  a  round  pace,  with  his  umbrella  over  his 
head,  and  his  feet  dangling  about  eight  inches 
from  the  ground.  My  aunt  looked  after  him, 
indulged  in  another  double  knock  laugh,  and 
presently  resumed  her  walk.  I  could  contain 
my  curiosity  no  l®nger. 

"  Aunt,"  said  I  eagerly  — "  aunt,  what  is  a 
Paul  Veronese?" 

Pacing  to  and  fro,  with  her  hands  behind  her 
back  and  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground,  Mrs. 
Sandyshaft  neither  heard  nor  replied.  I  plucked 
her  by  the  sleeve,  and  repeated  the  question. 

"  Aunt,  if  you  please — what  is  a  Paul  Vero- 
nese ?" 

"  Bab,  don't  bother.     I'm  counting." 
Used  to  these  rebuffs,  I  drew  back  and  waited 
quietly.     Presently  she  looked  up,  met  my  ask- 
ing eyes,  and  halted  abruptly. 

"  Well,  child,"  said  she,  "  what  is  it  ?" 
I  repeated  my  inquiry  for  the  third  time.     My 
aunt  frowned  and  shook  her  head. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  Bab,"  said  she,  test- 
ily, "  you  ask  too  many  questions.  My  life's  a 
perpetual  catechism :  and  for  every  breath  you 
draw,  one  might  write  a  note  of  interrogation. 
I  won't  stand  it  any  longeu.  There's  an  Ency- 
clopedia in  the  house — twenty-two  volumes  of  it 
— and  heftceforth,  when  you  want  to  know  any 
thing,  read  it  for  yourself.  Paul  Veronese,  in- 
deed !  Look  for  him  under  V,  and  there  you'll 
find  him." 

Delighted  to  be  made  free  of  the  lodced-up 
book-case,  I  ran  off,  key  in  hand,  and  spent  the 
rest  of  that  morning  poring  over  dusty  quartos. 
I  looked  under  V  without  success  ;  but  at  length, 
after  some  trouble,  found,  under  the  head  of 
Cagliari,  all  that  I  desired  to  know.  Found  that 
while  this  great  artist  was  yet  a  youth,  his  com- 
petitors had  themselves  decreed  him  a  prize  foj 


which  they  were  all  contending — that  in  his  ma- 
turity he  created  a  school  of  art,  and  was  the 
associate  of  ambassadors  and  kings — that  whole 
churches  and  palaces  had  been  enriched  by  his 
brush — that  in  life  he  achieved  honors,  and  in 
death  immortality.  Brief  and  meager  aa  it  was, 
this  biography  made  a  profound  impression  upon 
me.  It  came  to  me  like  a  revelation,  and  daz- 
zled me  with  vague  dreams  of  art-life  and  the 
splendor  of  the  medieval  painters.  Allusions 
and  references  in  the  one  article  led  me  to  the 
discovery  of  others,  and  the  lives  of  Leonardo 
da  Vinci,  Titian,  Rubens,  and  Vandyke  were  in 
turn  eagerly  devoured.  Never  having  seen  a 
really  fine  painting,  my  notions  were  perforce 
childish  and  confused,  and  the  vocabulary  of 
criticism  puzzled  me  like  Greek.  I  could  not 
conceive  the  meaning  of  such  words  as  "  tone," 
"  breadth,"  "  chiaroscuro,"  and  the  like  ;  and 
my  aunt  was  unable  to  help  me. 

"Don't  ask  me,  Bab,"  she  used  to  say.  "I 
know  more  of  pigs  than  pictures ;  and  as  for  that 
art-jargon,  I  believe  it's  humbug — every  word  of 
it!" 

For  all  this,  however,  I  read,  believed,  and 
dreamed  on.  To  be  a  painter  became  the  single 
ambition  of  my  soul ;  and  a  restless  desire  to  be- 
hold Mr.  Farquhar's  Paul  Veronese  pursued  me 
night  and  day. 

CHAPTER  VII. 

MY   GREAT   ADVENTURE. 

"Who    ever    loved    that   loved   not   at   first  sight ?'» 

Marlowe. 

Bolt  upright,  my  aunt  sat  at  her  desk,  writ- 
ing ;  whilst  I,  waiting  for  the  note,  played  with 
the  dogs,  and  looked  out  the  window. 

"  You'll  see  Dr.  Topham,  if  he  is  at  home, 
Bab,"  said  my  aunt,  without  looking  up. 

"  Yes,  aunt." 

"And  bring  back  an  answer." 

"  Yes,  aunt." 

"  And  take  the  path  over  the  fields.  It's  much 
the  nearest." 

"  Nearer  than  the  park,  aunt  ?" 


yes.     Half  a  mile  at  least." 

I  sighed  and  was  silent,  while  my  aunt  signed, 
sealed,  and  addressed  her  letter.  Having  done 
this,  she  beckoned  me  to  her  side,  looked  straight 
into  my  eyes,  and  said — 

"  Bab,  if  I  were  you  I'd  build  myself  a  hut  in 
Broomhill  nark,  and  live  there,  like  Robinson 
Crusoe." 

I  felt  myself  blush  up  to  the  roots  of  my  hair ; 
but  made  no  reply. 

"  Wherever  I  send  you,  you  contrive  to  make 
your  way  lie  through  the  park.  When  you  take 
a  walk,  it  is  always  through  the  park.  You 
haunt  the  park.  To  my  knowledge  you've  been 
there  every  day  for  the  last  fortnight  or  three 
weeks.*   What's  the  meaning  of  it  ?" 

I  looked  down;  stammered  ;  had  not  a  word 
to  say.  It  was  true  that  I  had  hovered  about 
the  place  of  late ;  but  I  had  no  courage  for  confes- 
sion. How  could  I  confide  to  her  the  wayward 
fancies  of  my  idle  hours  ?  How  acknowledge 
the  "  restless  unsatisfied  longing"  that  drew  me 
daily  to  look  from  afar  upon  the  walls  which  en- 
compassed a  Paul  Veronese  ?  Whether  she 
guessed  something  of  the  truth,  or  thought  me 


20 


BABBARA'S  HISTORY. 


merely  odd  and  unaccountable,  I  can  not  deter- 
mine ;  but  she  took  pity,  at  all  events,  on  my 
confusion,  and  forebore  to  question  me  further. 
She  looked  at  her  watch,  and  gave  me  the  letter. 
•^'  It's  now  nearly  five  o'clock,"  said  she,"  and, 
by  the  fields,  you  have  a  mile  to  walk.  I  give 
you  half  an  hour  to  go,  half  an  hour  to  return, 
and  half  an  hour  for  delays.  It  is  quite  far 
enough  for  you,  and  quite  time  enough  ;  and  if 
you  are  not  punctual,  I  shall  conclude  that  you 
have  disobeyed  me,  and  gone  round  by  the  park. 
Now  go." 

Thankful  to  be  dismissed,  I  bounded  across 
the  hall  and  the  garden,  and  was  out  of  sight  in 
a  moment. 

It  was  now  August,  and  the  sultry  sun  blazed 
fiercely,  bending  westward.  There  were  reapers 
reaping  wearily  in  the  hot  fields  as  I  went  by, 
and  gleaners,  footsore  and  dusty,  resting  under 
trees.  Not  a  breath  stirred.  Not  a  cloud  sailed. 
The  hardened  clods  and  languid  grass  looked 
parched  and  thirsty,  and  the  very  birds  sang  fitful- 
ly, as  if  pining  for  a  shower.  As  for  me,  I  delight- 
ed in  the  heat  and  bared  my  head  to  the  sun, 
like  a  little  Salamander  ;  and  danced  on,  rejoic- 
ing. 

When  I  arrived  at  his  house,  Dr.  Topham  was 
out,  and  not  likely  to  be  back  before  dark.  The 
servant  would  have  had  me  rest  awhile ;  but  I 
looked  up  -v^istfully  at  the  old  clock  in  the  hall, 
found  that  only  twenty-five  minutes  of  my  al- 
lotted time  were  gone,  and  so  left  the  note,  and 
took  my  way  slowly  homeward.  Only  twenty- 
five  minutes  out  of  an  hour  and  a  half  !  To  the 
right  lay  the  fields — to  the  left,  the  stile  and 
footpath  leading  to  Broomhill.  Supposing  that  I 
took  the  latter,  it  would  be  but  half  a  mile  added 
to  my  walk ;  and,  after  all,  it  was  not  the  dis- 
tance to  which  my  aunt  objected,  but  the  delay. 
Granted  that  I  reached  home  even  now  before 
the  time,  how  could  she  be  angry  with  me? 
Still  hesitating,  I  lingered  where  the  roads  divid- 
ed, and  argued  thus  with  my  conscience.  To 
convince  ourselves  according  to  our  inclinations 
is  not  difficult.  The  debate  was  soon  carried  in 
my  own  favor ;  the  stile  soon  crossed ;  the  park 
soon  gained. 

And  what  a  park  it  was  !  Putting  Paul  Vero- 
nese out  of  the  question,  it  was  the  pleasantest 
spot  in  all  our  neighborhood.  I  loved  nothing 
better  than  to  lie  under  the  shade  of  the  gnarled 
oaks,  and  watch  the  deer  browsing  in  herds 
along  the  grassy  vistas  round  about.  This  after- 
noon the  place  seemed  more  sylvan  than  ever. 
The  atmosphere,  which  aU  day  had  been  dense 
with  heat,  was  now  traversed  by  currents  of 
cool  air,  and  fragrant  with  sweet  scents.  The 
hush  that  precedes  the  sunset  had  fallen  upon 
every  leaf,  wild-flower,  and  blade  of  grass.  Far 
away,  distinct  though  dulled  by  distance,  echoed 
the  steady  strokes  of  the  woodman's  axe  ;  and, 
nearer,  a  party  of  disputatious  rooks  stalked 
gravely  to  and  fro,  and  then  rose,  eawing,  into 
the  air. 

Strolling  idly  on,  and  pausing  every  now  and 
then  to  listen  to  the  silence,  I  came  to  a  point 
where  the  paths  again  divided.  One  led  over 
the  slopes  where  the  horned  oxen  were  feeding 
by  scores,  and  opened  out  on  the  high  road — 
the  other  was  a  right  of  way  passing  straight 
through  the  yards,  and  skirting  the  private 
gardens  of  the  mansion.    My  horror  of  the  cat- 


tle decided  me  in  favor  of  the  latter,  and  I  went 
on.  On  through  the  "  checkered  shade  "  that 
fell  between  the  trees — on,  past  the  two  great 
cedars,  and  under  the  archway  with  ha  sculp- 
tured shield  and  motto  overhead — on,  past  the 
coach-houses  and  stable-doors,  and  under  the 
very  windows  of  the  Tudor  gallery  at  the  back 
of  the  house.  Naturally  a  shy  child,  I  hurried 
along  as  fast  as  my  feet  would  carry  me  ;  dread- 
ing lest  I  should  meet  any  of  the  servants,  or 
see  a  face  looking  at  me  from  some  upper  case- 
ment. Once  past  the  iron  gate,  once  clear  of 
the  yards  and  offices,  I  paused  to  take  breath. 

Before  me  stretched  a  fresh  expanse  of  trees 
and  slopes,  bounded  by  a  line  of  park -palings. 
To^  my  right,  inclosed  by  a  high  wall  above 
which  I  could  just  see  the  tops  of  the  pear- 
trees,  lay  the  fruit  and  vegetable-gardens.  To 
my  left,  half  in  light  and  half  in  shadow,  stood 
the  grand  old  house,  with  the  red  sunset  burn- 
ing on  its  panes,  like  "  patines  of  bright  gold." 
Brightest  and  nearest  of  all,  blazed  the  great 
stained  glass  windows  at  the  end  of  the  Tudor 
wing ;  and  strangely  cool  and  calm,  looked,  by 
comparison,  the  narrow  space  of  formal  lawn  in 
front.  It  was  a  little  strip  railed  off  from  the 
park  by  a  wire  fence,  and  entered  by  a  smaU 
gate  that  had  been  left  partly  open.  An  air  of 
great  quiet  pervaded  the  place.  A  tiny  fountain 
bubbled  from  a  grassy  mound  in  the  midst,  and 
a  sun-dial  on  a  time-stained  pedestal  stood  be- 
fore the  window.  Not  a  door  banged — not  a 
voice  echoed — ^not  a  footstep  crossed  either 
courtyard  or  garden.  It  might  have  Jifeen  an 
enchanted  palace,  with  a  spell-bound  princess 
dreaming  out  her  hundred  years  of  sleep  some- 
where in  the  silence  of  those  upper  rooms,  for 
any  sign  of  life  that  one  could  see  !  Awed  by 
the  solitude  and  the  hour,  I  held  my  breath,  and 
wondered  if  the  servants  ever  ventured  among 
those  suites  and  corridors  above,  and  how  they 
felt  at  night  when  it  grew  dusk. 

And  then  I  noticed  for  the  first  time  that  the 
shutters  of  the  great  bay  window  were  unfast- 
ened, and  stood  some  inches  apart.  Perhaps 
that  very  room  held  the  Paul  Veronese  ! 

Struck,  as  it  were,  by  a  conviction,  I  hesi- 
tated ;  cast  a  hasty  glance  all  around  ;  and 
darted  through  the  little  open  gate  !  To  climb 
up  by  the  aid  of  a  honey-suckle,  perch  myself 
on  the  broad  stone  ledge,  and  press  my  face 
close  against  the  glass,  was  the  work  of  a  mo- 
ment. I  had  been  out  so  long  in  the  broad 
sunlight  that  for  many  minutes  I  could  distin- 
guish nothing.  Then  one  object  after  another 
became  visible  through  the  gloom,  and  I  found, 
to  my  disappointment,  that  I  was  peering  into 
the  library.  Books,  books,  books — everywhere 
books!  Books  by  hundreds,  lining  the  walls, 
littering  the  tables,  and  piled  in  great  heaps  on 
the  floor.  The  room,  apparently,  was  being 
cleaned,  or  regulated.  I  gazed  for  a  long  time 
very  earnestly,  turned  away  presently  with  a 
sigh,  and  exclaiming — "  Then  it  is  not  there, 
after  all !" — swung  myself  down  upon  the  lawn. 

*'  What  is  not  there  ?"  said  a  voice  close  be- 
side me. 

Blinded  by  the  change  from  dark  to  light,  I 
could  only  see  a  tall  figure  standing  between  me 
and  the  setting  sun. 

'  "  What  is  not  there  ?  What  are  you  looking 
for  ?    Who  are  you  ?"  asked  the  stranger,  lay- 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


21 


ing  his  hand  upon  my  shoulder.     "  Why,  what 
a  frightened  little  trespasser  it  is !" 

Frightened  indeed !  frightened  almost  out  of 
my  senses.  Daring  neither  to  look  up  nor 
speak,  and  feeling  as  though  that  touch  had 
power  to  weigh  me  to  the  ground !  He  pitied 
my  distress ;  for  when  he  spoke  again  his  voice 
was  grave  and  sweet,  like  the  deep  notes  of  an 
organ. 

"  Fear  nothing,  my  child,"  he  said.  "  I  am 
not  angry  with  you.  Come,  speak — tell  me 
why  you  were  looking  through  that  window  ?" 

And  still  he  kept  his  hand  upon  my  shoulder 
— somewhat  firmly,  too,  as  if  he  thought  I 
should  presently  dart  away  and  escape  him. 

"  So  !  still  dumb  ?  Nay,  you  will  at  least  tell 
me  your  name  ?" 

I  faintly  stammered — "  Barbara." 
"Barbara!"  repeated  the  stranger  n>wsingly. 
*  A  quaint  old  name  !     *  My  mother  had  a  maid 
called — Barbara  P   Let  me  see — who  says  that  ? 
Desdemona  ?" 

"  I — I  don't  know,  sir,"  said  I,  gaining  confi- 
dence ;  but  wondering  at  the  question. 

He  smiled,  put  his  hand  under  my  chin,  and 
turned  my  face  to  the  light. 

"  I  should  think  not,  indeed  !"  replied  he. 
"  What  should  a  little  girl  like  you  know  about 
Shakspeare  ?" 

"  I  have  read  of  him,"  said  I,  stoutly.  "  He 
was  a  poet,  and  wrote  plays." 

"  Per  Bacco  !  A  learned  Barbara !  A  Bar- 
bara, versed  in  the  poets  !  Come,  petite,  you 
have  a  Surname,  surely — what  is  it  ?" 

Uncomfortably  conscious  of  something  like 
irony  in  the  stranger's  manner,  I  hesitated  and 
looked  down. 

"  My  other  name  is  Churchill,"  I  replied,  after 
a  minute. 

"  Churchill — Barbara  Churchill !  Good  names 
both  !  They  go  '  tripplingly  on  the  tongue,' 
and  are  pleasant  to  pronounce.  There's  some- 
thing in  a  name,  after  all.  Churchill  is  histori- 
cal, too !" 

And  my  new  acquaintance,  whose  observa- 
tion seemed  like  spoken'  thoughts  and  were 
scarcely  addressed  to  me  at  all,  began  humming 
the  old  tune  of — 

"  MarlbrooTc  e'en  vaH  en  guerre  /" 

"  The  Duke  of  Marlborough  was  an  ancestor 
of  Papa's,"  said  I,  with  great  dignity.  "We 
have  ever  so  many  lives  of  him  at  home." 

"  By  Jove,  now,  this  is  wonderful !"  exclaimed 
the  stranger,  laughing,  and  looking  at  me  more 
attentively.  "  She's  positively  a  genealogical 
Barbara !" 

"  Oh,  we  have  the  genealogy,  Noo,"  said  I 
eagerly.  "It  hangs  in  Papa's  room.  I  have 
often  looked  at  it — there's  a  great  tree  coming 
out  of  a  man's  body,  and  the  apples  all  have 
names  on  them." 

He  looked  at  me  again,  and  put  his  hand  to 
his  forehead. 

"  'Tis  strange,"  he  murmured,  "  but  I — I 
don't  remember  any  Churchills  hereabout. 
Where  does  your  father  live,  Barbara?  In 
Ipswich  ?" 

"  Oh,  dear,  no  !     In  London." 

"So  — so.  Not  a  Suffolk  family  at  all!  I 
thought  I  could  scarcely  have  forgotten  that 
name.  Who  are  you  staying  with,  little  one  ? 
The  Grants  of  Bosmere  ?" 


"  I  am  staying  with  my  great-aunt,  "  said  I, 
"  at  Stoneycroft  Hall." 

Having  an  immense  idea  of  her  social  posi- 
tion, I  announced  this  fact  with  quite  a  grand 
air,  and  expected  to  see  it  produce  a  wonderful 
effect.  But  the  stranger  only  burst  into  a 
hearty  laugh,  and  repeated  my  aunt's  name 
over  and  over  again,  as  if  the  very  sound  of  it 
amused  him. 

"What,  Mrs.  Sandyshaft!"  he  cried.  "Is 
she  your  great-aunt  ?  Mrs.  Sandyshaft  of  the 
hall !  Mrs.  Sandyshaft  of  the  hundred  pigs ! 
Does  she  still  keep  a  hundred  pigs,  Barbara  ?" 
"  Of  course  she  does,"  replied  I,  half-affronted. 
He  laughed  again  —  then  became  suddenly 
grave,  and  walked  to  and  fro  between  the  sun- 
dial and  the  gate  for  some  minutes  ;  lost,  appar- 
ently, in  thought. 

"  You  have  not  yet  told  me  what  you  were 
doing  at  the  library-window,"  he  said,  stop- 
ping abruptly,  and  taking  me  again  by  the 
shoulder. 

I  felt  the  color  rush  to  my  face  ;  but  replied 
with  tolerable  self-possession  that  I  was  only 
"looking  in." 

"  Yes ;  but  what  were  you  looking  in  for  ?" 
"N  —  n  —  nothing  at  all,"  said  I  reluctantly. 
"  JSFon  e  vero,  Barbara !  You  were  looking 
for  something.  I  heard  you  say  '  it  is  not  there, 
after  all !'  Come — I  must  know  all  about  it, 
or  I  will  take  you  home  to  your  aunt  and  tell 
her  you  were  trespassing  !" 

I  knew  he  did  not  mean  that ;  and  I  felt  sure, 
somehow,  that  it  would  be  best  to  confess  at 
once.     Besides,  I  was  no  longer  afraifl  of  him. 

"I  thought  the  picture  might  be  there,"  I 
said  hesitatingly.     "I  —  I  so  wanted  to  see  it  ?" 
"  Picture  ?"  repeated  the   stranger,   hastily. 
"  What  picture  ?" 

"  Oh,  a  beautiful,  wonderful  picture  by  Paul 
Veronese !" 

"Paul  Veronese  !" 

"Yes  —  did  you  never  hear  of  him?  He 
was  a  painter  —  a  great  painter,  and  he  died  a 
long,  long  time  ago,  somewhere  in  Italy,"  said 
I,  with  childish  volubility.  "I  have  read  all 
about  him  in  a  book  at  home,  and  there's  a  pic- 
ture of  his  somewhere  in  this  house  —  a  pic- 
ture worth  thousands  of  pounds  !" 
"And  this  picture  you  wish  to  see  ?" 
"  I  have  wished  for  nothing  else,  ever  since 
Dr.  Tophara  talked  about  it!" 

"  Humph  !  And  pray  what  had  Dr.  Topham 
,to  say  on  the  subject?" 

"Nothing  —  except  that  Mr.  Farquhar  had 
bought  it,  and  it  was  here." 

"And  Mrs.  Sandyshaft  —  what  did  she  say?" 
"  Oh,  she  said  that  Mr,  Farquhar  was  an  ex- 
travagant fool,  and  as  mad  as  a  March  hare  !" 

The  stranger  laughed  again ;  but  with  a  dark 
flush  on  his  cheek,  as  if  the  source  of  his  amuse- 
ment were  scarcely  a  pleasant  one. 

"Not  a  very  flattering  verdict,  upon  my 
word  ?"  said  he.  "  Instructive,  however,  if 
taken  as  the  measure  of  public  opinion.  'A 
plague  upon  opinion !  a  man  may  wear  it  on 
both  sides,  like  a  leather  jerkin.'  'Tis  well  for 
Hugh  Farquhar  that  his  hearing  is  duller  than 
that  of  Signor Heimdale,  of  celestial  memory!" 
"  Heimdale  !"  I  exclaimed.  "  Who  was  he  ?" 
"  Heimdale,  my  dear  little  Barbara,"  said  the 
stranger,  "was  a  very  respectable  personage. 
He  acted  as  watchman  and  light  porter  to  the 


22 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


Scandinavian  Gods  ;  and  his  ears  were  so  incon- 
veniently acute  that  he  could  hear  the  grass 
grow  in  the  meadows,  and  the  wool  on  the 
backs  of  the  sheep." 

It  was  now  my  turn  to  laugh. 

"That's  a  fairy  tale?"  cried  I.  "What 
comes  next?" 

"  More  than  I  can  tell  you  now,"  replied  he, 
looking  at  his  watch.  "  Vediamo  —  it  is  but 
seven  minutes  past  six,  and  we  shall  have  good 
daylight  for  more  than  an  hour.  Time  enough, 
petite,  for  you  to  see  the  picture." 

"The  —  the  picture?"  I  faltered,  incredu- 
lously. 

He  nodded,  took  me  by  the  hand,  and  led  me 
round  to  a  low  gothic  door  at  the  foot  of  an  ivy- 
grown  octagonal  turret,  facing  the  moat. 

A  tiny  key,  produced  from  his  waistcoat  pock- 
et, admitted  us  into  a  small  passage,  which,  so 
soon  as  the  door  was  closed,  became  profoundly 
dark.  He  then  took  my  hand  again ;  warned 
me  of  some  three  or  four  stone  steps,  up  which 
we  felt  our  way  cautiously ;  pushed  aside  a 
heavy  curtain  that  seemed  all  at  once  to  bar  our 
farther  progress;  and  led  me  into  a  bright 
eight-sided  room,  lined  with  books,  fragrant 
with  fresh  flowers,  and  flooded  with  the  glory 
of  the  descending  sun.  One  large  window  with 
a  rich  heraldic  bordering  of  stained  glass,  over- 
looked a  broad  sweep  of  park  and  open  coun- 
try ;  an  elaborate  bronzg  lamp  swung  by  a  triple 
chain  from  the  middle  of  the  ceiling ;  some 
three  or  four  curious  busts  of  Roman  emperors 
and  poets,  done  in  colored  marbles,  occupied 
brackets  over  the  chimney-piece  and  book- 
shelves. Something  scholastic,  something  ele- 
gant and  indolent,  was  expressed  in  every  trifle 
about  the  chamber,  from  that  luxurious  piece 
of  furniture  which  comprised  reading-desk,  read- 
ing-lamp, and  easy-chair  in  one,  down  to  the 
antique  chased  ink-stand  on  the  table,  and  the 
delicate  curiosities  in  porcelain  and  terra-cotta 
which  crowded  the  mantle-piece. 

"  Oh,  what  a  beautiful  room  !"  I  exclaimed, 
when  my  first  surprise  had  somewhat  abated. 

"  'Tis  my  study,  Barbara,"  replied  my  new 
friend. 

A  strange  suspicion  for  the  first  time  flashed 
across  my  mind. 

"  Yours  .^"  I  echoed. 

"  Yes,  I  am  Hugh  Farquhar,"  said  he ;  and 
rang  the  bell, 

Hugh  Farquhar !  My  hero,  my  Sindbad,  my 
Prince  Camaralzaman !  Hugh  Farquhar  of^ 
whom  I  had  heard  so  much  and  dreamed  so 
much ;  whose  rumored  travels  I  had  so  often 
tracked  upon  old  maps,  and  whose  adventures  I 
had  illustrated  upon  foolscap  without  end  !  All  the 
stories  that  had  ever  been  told  of  him,  and  all 
the  censure  that  idle  tongues  had  passed  upon 
him,  came  back  in  an  instant  to  my  memory  — 
and  then  I  recollected  the  speech  that  I  had 
myself  repeated,  and,  covered  with  confusion, 
knew  not  where  to  look, 

"  Well,  petite,^''  said  he,  after  a  brief  pause, 
"  now  that  you  know  who  I  am,  have  you  noth- 
ing to  say  to  me  ?  Or,  because  I  am  as  mad  as 
a  March  hare,  are  you  afraid  of  me?" 

Afraid  of  him !  Why  I  felt  as  if  I  had  known 
him  for  years  already.  I  did  not  dare,  however, 
to  say  so ;  but,  looking  up,  saw  such  a  world 
of  kindly  merriment  spai'kling  in  his  eyes,  that 


I  smiled,  and  shook  my  head,  and  said  quite 
confidently :  — 

"Not  a  bit." 

"  So  much  the  better ;  for  I  have  a  mind, 
Barbara,  that  you  and  I  should  be  good  friends. 
Tippoo,  desire  the  servants  to  unclose  the  shut- 
ters in  the  long  gallery,  and  let  the  gardener  be 
sent  for,  I  am  going  to  have  that  packing-case 
opened." 

"Yes,  Sahib,"  said  alow  voice  close  behind  me. 

I  turned  somewhat  nervously,  and  found  a 
slender  oUve-colored  man  in  a  plain  black  suit 
and  white  neckcloth,  with  gold  rings  in  his  ears, 
standing  at  my  elbow. 

"And  bring  chisels  and  hammers,  Tippoo; 
and  be  as  quick  as  possible,  for  the  daylight  is 
going." 

Tippoo  bent  his  head ;  glided  like  a  shadow 
to  the  door ;  and  left  the  room  as  noiselessly  as 
he  had  entered  it.  He  had  shown  no  surprise 
at  my  presence  —  he  had  not  even  seemed  to 
see  me.  His  glittering  blacks  eyes  had  rested 
only  on  his  master's  face,  and  he  moved  like  an 
automaton,  obedient  only  to  his  master's  will. 

"Tippoo  is  my  Hindoo  servant,"  said  Mr, 
Farquhar,  explanatorily.  "  I  brought  him  from 
Benares.  He  ^saved  my  life  once,  at  the  risk 
of  his  own,  and  \Ye  have  never  parted  since." 

"  Saved  your  life  ?"  I  •  exclaimed  eagerly, 
"  How  ?     From  a  lion,  or  a  tiger  ?" 

"  No,  from  the  bite  of  a  snake.  But  I  will 
tell  you  all  about  that  some  other  time,  Barbara 
— let  us  now  see  after  the  Paul  Veronese.  I 
have  not  looked  upon  it  myself  since  the  day  I 
bought  it !" 

And  with  this  he  took  me  away  from  the 
study  in  the  turret,  through  some  dreary  rooms 
filled  with  sheeted  furniture  and  out  upon  a 
spacious  staircase  hung  with  gloomy  old  paint- 
ings and  broad  enough  for  ten  persons  marching 
abreast.  At  the  foot  of  this  staircase  we  came 
upon  a  man  with  a  basket  of  tools,  who  pulled 
off  his  cap  respectfully,  and  stood  aside  to  let  us 
pass.  Then  Mr.  Farquhar  opened  one  half  Oi 
an  oaken  door,  and  I  found  myself  in'  a  long 
gallery  lighted  on  one  side  by  a  row  of  windows, 
and  closely  hung  with  pictures  on  the  other. 
The  floor  was  laid  down  with  matting ;  a  large 
table  covered  with  a  dusty  sheet  was  the  only 
article  of  furniture  in  sight ;  and  a  huge  deal 
packing-case,  propped  up  at  the  back  by  wooden 
supports,  stood  in  the  very  center  of  the  room. 
Two  women-servants  who  were  busy  opening 
the  shutters  when  we  came  in,  looked  at  me 
with  unconcealed  amazement. 

"  This,  Barbara,"  said  Mr.  Farquhar,  "  is  the 
picture-gallen^.  The  pictures  are  mostly  por- 
traits, as  yo\r  see.  I  could  tell  you  lots  of  stories 
about  these  grim  old  ladies  and  gentlemen ;  but 
those  will  keep  for  some  other  occasion.  Now, 
gardener— now  Tippoo,  we  want  this  lid  off. 
Here,  give  me  a  chisel,  andMet's  see  how  quick 
we  can  be  !" 

And  with  this  he  snatched  a  tool  from  the 
basket,  and  set  to  work  as  actively  as  either  of  his 
servants.  I  stood  by  breathlessly  and  watched 
the  process,  counting  nail  after  nail  as  it  fell  to 
the  ground,  and  watching  plank  after  plank  as 
it  was  removed  and  laid  aside.  When  the  last 
was  withdrawn,  and  only  a  covering  of  green 
baize  intervened  between  me  and  the  object  of 
my  desires,  I  turned  cold  and  trembled. 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


"  Now  stand  aside,  all  of  you,"  said  the  master 
of  the  house,  himself  somewhat  flushed  and  ex- 
cited. '■'•Petite^  come  forward  to  the  angle  of 
that  window,  and  you  will  get  the  best  light  on 
it.  So — there  it  is,  safe  and  uninjured — my  Paul 
Veronese !" 

He  had  plucked  the  baize  away,  and  now 
came  and  stood  beside  me,  contemplating  his 
purchase.  He  was,  at  first,  so  absorbed  in  the 
pleasure  of  looking  upon  it,  that  he  forgot  to 
observe  me.  He  advanced  ;  he  retreated  ;  he 
shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hands;  he  moved 
from  right  to  left,  from  left  to  right,  and  ex- 
claimed impatiently  against  the  fading  day- 
light. 

As  for  me — how  shall  I  confess  it  ? — my  first 
impression  was — disappointment. 

I  had  expected  too  much.  I  had  expected,  I 
know  not  what;  but  something,  at  all  events, 
surpassing  all  the  glow  and  glory  of  nature  her- 
self. The  Paul  Veronese  of  my  dreams  was  an 
immortal  vision  —  a  resplendent  mystery — a 
pageant  of  heroic  forms  more  than  half  divine, 
and  adorned  in  colors  transcending  the  gold 
and  purple  of  the  eastern  sky.  The  Paul 
Veronese  of  my  awaking  was,  on  the  contrary, 
darkened  and  deepened  by  time ;  majestic,  but 
somber ;  and  flawed  all  over  with  those  minute 
cracks,  which  are  like  wrinkles  on  the  brow  of 
ancient  art.  An  aged  man,  robed  and  crowned, 
stood  nearly  in  the  centre  of  the  picture  sur- 
rounded by  senators  and  nobles  in  dresses  of 
ceremony,  four  of  whom  held  a  canopy  above 
his  head.  At  his  feet  knelt  ambassadors  with 
gifts,  and  in  the  distance  lay  the  towers  and 
cupolas  of  a  great  city,  and  a  sea  thronged  with 
galleys.  It  was  grand,  but  cold.  It  appealed 
neither  to  my  imagination  nor  my  sympathies, 
and  even  in  point  of  color  fell  woefully  short  of 
my  ideal. 

Struck  by  ray  silence,  Mr.  Farquhar  turned  at 
length,  and  looked  at  me. 

"  Well,  little  one,"  said  he.  "  What  of  the 
picture  ?" 

I  knew  not  ho"W  to  reply. 

"  Does  it  equal  your  expectations?" 

It  needed  some  courage  to  confess  the  truth  ; 
but  I  contrived  to  stammer  out  a  reluctant 
negative.  He  looked  surprised,  annoyed,  dis- 
appointed. He  frowned ;  glanced  from  me  to 
the  picture,  and  from  the  picture  back  to  me ; 
sighed  impatiently,  and  said  aloud : — 

"  Of  course  not — I  was  a  fool  to  expect  it ! 
What  should  the  poor  child  know  about  the 
matter?  There,  Tippoo,  hang  the  baize  over 
it  again.     The  show's  a  failure." 

Fain  would  I  have  begged  to  look  longer ; 
to  have  the  subject  explained  to  me  ;  to  learn 
why  it  was  so  good,  and  why  I  could  not  ap- 
preciate it — but  I  dare/i  not.  He  was  vexed 
with  me — had  over-estimated  me — was  dis- 
appointed in  me.  A  choking  sense  of  humilia- 
tion rose  in  my  throat,  I  could  not  have  uttered 
a  syllable  to  save  my  life. 

Fortunately  for  me,  my  vexation  passed  un- 
noticed. The  covering  of  the  picture  and  the 
reclosing  of  the  shutters  occupied  all  Mr,  Far- 
quhar's  attention — then  he  made'  the  servants 
go  out  before  him,  locked  the  door,  and  put  the 
key  in  his  pocket. 

"  Come  along,  Barbara,"  said  he,  '*  let  us  go 
back  to  the  study." 


And  so  we  went  back  by  the  way  we  had  come. 

The  place  had  been  transformed  in  our  absence. 
The  fading  daylight  had  been  curtained  out  by 
a  heavy  crimson  drapery — the  table  was  laid  for 
dinner — the  lamp  overhead  cast  a  subdued  light 
all  around — and,  despite  the  season  and  the  heat, 
a  pile  of  logs  and  pine-cones  crackled  on  the 
hearth.  My  companion  flung  himself  into  his 
easy  chair ;  bent  shiveringly  before  the  fire ; 
and  seemed  lost  in  thought.  I  sat  on  a  stool  at 
the  other  side  of  the  hearth,  and  looked  at 
him. 

Many  and  many  a  year  has  gone  by  since  that 
evening,  and  I  have  long  learned  to  distrust  my 
preconceived  ideas  of  men  and  things ;  but  it 
puzzled  me  then  to  find  myself  so  far  mistaken. 
How  unlike  the  Hugh  Farquhar  of  my  dreams ! 
How  unlike  that  brilliant  hero  with  the  Byronic 
collar  whom  I  had  been  picturing  to  myself 
these  four  or  five  months  past !  I  imagined  him 
so  handsome,  so  gallant,  so  fascinating  —  "a 
man  rare  as  phoenix."  I  fourld  him  none  of 
these ;  and  yet,  strange  though  it  ma^  seem,  I 
was  not  disappointed.  I  had  already  a  true 
instinct  for  character;  and  I  am  pleased  to  re- 
member that,  even  then,  I  preferred  originality 
and  power  to  mere  physical  advantages.  But  I 
must  describe  him ;  and  the  task  is  one  of  no 
common  difficulty.  To  go  back  to  the  first  im- 
pression of  a  long- familiar  face  —  to  obliterate 
from  cheek  and  brow  the  subtle  finger-marks  of 
time — to  recall  tones  and  gestures  which  seem- 
ed then  to  indicate  so  much,  but  which  custom 
hath  made  no  longer  noticeable  —  all  these 
and  more,  concur  to  baffle  me. 

I  have  never  been  a  good  judge  of  age  ;  bu 
at  the  time  of  which  I  write,  my  notions  respect- 
ing it  were  of  the  vaguest  possible  description. 
So  bronzed,  so  tall,  so  serious  as  he  looked,  sit- 
ting thus  by  the  red  fire-light,  I  believed  Hugh 
Farquhar  already  to  have  arrived  at  middle-life 
— I  now  know  that  he  was  just  twenty-seven 
years  of  age.  It  is  possible,  however,  that  he 
looked  older — that  varieties  of  climate,  customs 
and  food  ;  adventures  by  land  and  sea ;  fatigue ; 
exposure  to  weather ;  and  all  other  contingen- 
cies of  a  wild  and  wandering  life,  had  wrought 
some  such  effect  upon  him.  Be  this  as  it  may, 
the  year  that  followed  worked,  at  all  events, 
but  little  perceptible  difference. 

I  have  said  that  he  was  not  handsome — nay, 
were  I  closely  to  analyze  his  features,  I  should 
perhaps  be  forced  to  confess  that  he  was  plain  ; 
and  yet  I  never  knew  any  one  who  thought  him 
so.  There  was  a  certain  grandeur  in  the  poise 
of  his  head,  a  rugged  power  stamped  upon  his 
brow,  a  careless  strength  and  dignity  in  his 
every  gesture,  that  marked  him  for  no  ordinary 
man.  Were  I  bidden  to  single  out  any  well- 
known  head,  not  as  a  likeness  but  a  type,  I 
should  name  Beethoven's.  Yet  it  would  then 
be  necessary  to  efface  those  furrows  of  scorn 
and  suffering,  rage  and  bitterness,  which  plow 
the  features  of  the  deaf  musician.  The  same 
loose,  thick  locks,  however,  were  there  —  the 
same  characteristic  prominences  over  the  eyes 
—  the  same  broad  brow  and  massive  jaw. 
Swarthy  of  complexion,  dark-haired,  dark-eyed, 
tanned  by  the  wind  and  sun,  and  wearing  such 
an  amount  of  waving  beard  and  moustache  as 
was  seldom  seen  in  those  days  on  this  side  of  the 
Channel,  Hugh  Farquhar  looked  masculine  and 


24 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


individual  enough;  but  could  scarcely  have 
been  more  thoroughly  the  reverse  of  all  that  I 
had  previously  imagined.  Men,  as  a  rule,  ad- 
mired him  more  generally  than  women.  Wo- 
men, rarely  indifferent,  beheld  in  his  counte- 
nance something  more  attractive  than  beauty. 
What  was  that  something  ?  How  shall  I  define, 
how  analyze  it?  Was  it  the  impress  of  emo- 
tional, or  the  light  of  intellectual  power  ?  Or 
was  it  not,  rather,  that  every  glance  and  every 
tone  conveyed  some  subtle  record  of  an  adven- 
turous and  reckless  life,  passion-worn,  unsatis- 
fied, and  self-consuming  ? 

I  had  intended  to  give  my  first  childish  im- 
pression of  Hugh  Farquhar,  and  I  find  that  I 
have  described  him  from  my  later  experience. 
It  is  prematurely  done ;  but  let  it  be.  Imperfect 
as  it  is,  I  can  make  it  no  better. 

The  fire  blazed  and  crackled  merrily  all  this 
time.  My  companion  sat  and  looked  at  it  with 
thoughts  far  distant.  I  crouched  down  in  the 
shade,  and  watched  him  till  I  knew  his  face  by 
heart.  A  quarter  of  an  hour,  or  twenty  min- 
utes, went  by  thus,  in  silence.  Then  the  door 
fell  noiselessly  back,  and  Tippoo  came  in  with  a 
small  tray  of  silver-covered  dishes.  Mr.  Farqu- 
har sighed,  and  looked  up  for  the  first  time. 

"  What,"  said  he  wearily,  "  is  it  already  half- 
past  seven  ?" 

"It  wants  twenty-five  minutes  to  eight. 
Sahib,"  replied  the  Hindoo,  waiting  his  mas- 
ter's signal  to  remove  the  covers. 

Mr.  Farquhar  rolled  his  easy  chair  round  to 
the  table,  and  glanced  with  a  sort  of  abstracted 
wonder  at  the  seat  which  had  been  placed  for  me. 

"Do  we  expect  any  one,  Tippoo?"  said  he. 

Tippoo  lifted  his  black  eyes  to  his  master's 
face,  and  then  glanced  meaningly  toward  the 
corner  in  which  I  was  sitting.  Mr.  Farquhar 
turned  half-round,  started,  laughed  with  some- 
thing like  confusion  in  his  face,  and  said  : 

"  Come,  little  one,  the  dinner  is  ready,  and  I 
should  hope  we  are  both  hungry  by  this  time  !" 

I  came  over  without  a  word,  and  sat  down 
where  he  bade  me ;  but  I  was  not  hungry  now. 
He  had  forgotten  all  about  me  ! 

How  kind  he  was  all  dinner-time,  and  how  he 
strove  to  compensate  for  his  forgetfulness  !  He 
shook  off  his  thoughtful  mood,  and  I  could  see 
that  it  cost  him  an  effort.  He  chatted  with  me  ; 
he  exerted  himself  to  make  me  laugh ;  he 
helped  me  to  the  choicest  morsels,  and  insisted 
that  I  should  taste  every  one  of  the  dishes. 
They  were  all  strange  to  me,  and  had  a  hot, 
spiced  flavor  which  I  did  not  like.  Besides 
this,  they  were  called  the  oddest  names  imagin- 
able— mulligatawny,  pilaff,  caviare,  curry,  ma- 
caroni, and  so  forth — enjoying  thereby  the 
double  advantage  of  being  unpalatable  and  un- 
pronounceable. By  and  by,  the  meats  were 
removed,  and  strong  black  coffee,  dried  fruits, 
liquors  and  sweetmeats  were  brought  to  table. 
Mr.  Farquhar  then  heaped  my  plate  with  dates, 
bonbons,  and  raisins ;  turned  his  chair  once 
more  to  the  fire ;  bade  me  do  the  same ;  and 
lighted  a  long  Turkish  pipe  which  had  a  coily 
tube  like  a  green  and  golden  snake,  and  a  bowl 
of  bell-shaped  glass  that  rested  on  the  ground. 

"  I  am  afraid,  petite,''^  said  he,  when  Tippoo 
had  left  the  room  and  we  were  once  more  left 
alone,  "  that  you  will  not  have  much  to  say  in 
praise  of  my  cookery  when  you  get  home  ?" 


Home!  The  word  struck  me  like  a  blow. 
Like  Hazlitt's  "  rustic  at  a  fair,"  I  had  been  all 
this  time  "  full  of  amazement  and  rapture,  and 
had  no  thought  of  going  home,  or  that  it  would 
soon  be  night."  Now  it  all  rushed  upon  me  in 
a  moment. 

"  Oh,  what  o'clock  is  it,  please  ?"    I  faltered. 

"Nearly  nine  by  my  watch, petite.'''' 

I  had  risen ;  but,  hearing  this,  laid  aside  the 
untasted  fruits,  and  sat  down  again  in  blank 
dismay.  Nine  o'clock,  and  I  was  to  have  been 
home,  at  the  latest,  by  half-past  six  !  What 
was  to  become  of  me  ?  What  would  my  aunt 
say  to  me  ?  How  should  I  dare  to  face  her  ? 
What  excuse  could  I  offer  for  my  disobedience  ? 

Something  of  this  I  contrived  brokenly  to  ex- 
press, and  Mr.  Farquhar  seeing  my  distress, 
rang  the  bell  at  once,  and  tried  to  reassure  me. 

"  Fear  nothing,  my  little  friend,"  said  he  kind- 
ly. "I  will  take  you  home  myself,  presently, 
and  bear  all  the  blame  as  well.  Tippoo,  let 
Satan  be  saddled  and  brought  round  directly." 

Tippoo  bent  his  head,  and  disappeared.  Mr. 
Farquhar  glanced  again  at  his  watch,  and 
smoked  on  with  the  utmost  composure. 

"  In  fifteen  minutes,"  said  he,  "  I  promise  to 
land  you  in  your  aunt's  sitting-room.  That 
allows  me  five  minutes  more  to  enjoy  my  pipe 
and  coffee,  and  ten  to  ride  from  here  to  Stoney- 
croft  Hall.  Come,  banish  that  melancholy  look 
and  trust  to  me  for  Mrs.  Sandyshaft's  forgive- 
ness." 

I  would  gladly  have  so  trusted,  if  I  could ; 
but  I  too  well  knew  what  were  my  aunt's  pre- 
judices, and  what  her  opinion  of  Hugh  Farquhar 
and  his  family.  However,  I  made  an  effort  to 
be  cheerful,  and  the  five  minutes  went  slowly 
by.  As  the  last  expired,  my  companion  laid  his 
pipe  aside,  and  passed  in  an  instant  from  the 
purest  oriental  languor  to  a  state  of  genuine 
European  activity. 

To  ring  again  for  Tippoo,  who  immediately 
made  his  appearance  laden  with  wraps — to  en- 
velop me  in  a  cape  lined  with  furs,  and  himself 
in  a  huge  bearskin  coat,  fitter  for  the  Arctic 
regions  than  for  an  autumn  night  in  England — 
to  pour  out  a  glass  of  some  delicious  liquor, 
and  compel  me  to  drink  it — to  be  booted,  spur- 
red and  equipped,  all  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye 
- — to  take  me  up  in  his  arms,  and,  preceded  by 
Tippoo,  carry  me  down-stairs  and  across  the 
courtyard,  as  if  I  had  been  a  feather — all  this 
was  the  work  of  only  a  few  seconds,  and  was 
done  in  less  time  than  it  takes  to  teU. 

A  groom  holding  a  superb  black  horse,  waited 
for  us  at  the  outer  door. 

"  Soho,  Satan — soho,  boy  !"  said  Farquhar, 
pausing  an  instant  to  lay  his  hand  upon  the 
glossy  neck  and  mane,  and  then  springing 
lightly  into  the  saddle.  The  horse  whinnied, 
and  scraped  the  gravel  impatiently  with  his 
fore-foot — Tippoo  lifted  me  up,  and  placed  me 
before  his  master  on  the  saddle — Mr.  Farquhar 
encircled  me  with  his  right  arm,  bade  me  hold 
tightly,  gave  a  low  whistle,  and  away  we  went 
at  a  gallop,  dashing  under  the  great  archway, 
and  making  right  across  the  park ! 

The  rapid  motion  at  first  took  away  my 
breath,  and  I  felt  as  if  I  must  fall  off  and  be 
dashed  to  pieces.  This,  however,  soon  passed 
away,  and,  feeling  the  clasp  of  his  strong  arm, 
I  presently  gained  confidence,  and  enjoyed  the 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


25 


speed  with  which  we  went.  It  was  a  glorious 
night.  The  moon  shone  with  that  yellow  light 
which  only  belongs  to  her  in  the  golden  harvest- 
time  ;  the  dew  sparkled,  diamond-like,  upon  the 
grass ;  there  were  nightingales  singing  in  the 
tall  elms ;  and  the  deer,  clustered  in  sleeping 
herds  about  the  great  oaks  here  and  there, 
started  at  our  approach  and  fled  away  by  scores 
in  the  moonlight. 

"  Ha,  Uttle  one  !"  said  my  companion,  "  see 
how  they  run  !  They  believe  we  are  hunting 
them  to-night.  Doesn't  this  remind  you  of 
Johnny  Gilpin  ?  It  reminds  me  of  one  mistress 
Lenora  who  once  rode  a  hundred  miles  some- 
where in  Germany  at  an  unbecoming  hour  of 
the  night,  and  lived  to  repent  of  it. 

"  GroAit  Liebchen  auch  t—Der  Mond  acheint  hell  ! 
Hurrah  !  die  Todten  reiten  schnell  ! 
Oraut  Liebchen  auch  ooor  Todten  ?"        ^ 

By  Jove  !  I  shall  begin  to  fancy  presently  that 
I  am  Wilhelm,  and  you  Lenora.  So — here  the 
park  ends,  and  there's  a  five-foot  paling  'twixt 
us  and  the  road.  Hold  on,  little  one,  and  hey 
for  a  leap !     Soho,  Satan — soho  !" 

Horribly  alarmed,  I  clung  to  him  as  a  drown- 
ing man  clings  to  a  plank ;  but  Satan  took  the 
fence  like  a  grayhound,  and  we  were  over  before 
I  knew  where  I  was. 

"  Why  do  you  call  him  Satan  ?"  I  asked,  as 
soon  as  I  had  recovered  my  breath. 

"Because  he  is  black  and  wicked,"  replied 
Mr.  Farquhar  laughingly.  "He  is  amiable  to 
no  one  but  me.  He  bites  all  the  grooms,  kills 
all  the  little  dogs,  and  hate^  the  sight  of  a 
woman.  He  tolerates  Tippoo  (but  that's  a  pre- 
judice of  color),  and  he  loves  me — don't  you, 
Satan,  boy  ?  He  eats  from  my  hand,  kneels 
when  I  mount  him,  and  follows  me  like  a  dog, 
I  bought  him  from  an  Arab.  He  was  a  colt 
then,  desert-born  and  bred.  He  will  never 
tread  the  Arabian  sands  again — ^nor  I  either, 
perhaps.  Bah  !  who  knows  ?  I  may  turn  Be- 
douin, and  make  the  pilgrimage  to  Mecca  '  in 
most  profound  earnest,'  as  Claudio  says,  before 
I  die !" 

And  with  this  he  hummed  more  German  lines, 
and  urged  his  horse  on  faster  and  faster.  The 
trees  and  hedges  flew  past — Satan  seemed  as  if 
he  would  tear  the  road  up  with  his  hoofs — the 
sparks  flashed  from  a  flint  every  now  and  then  ; 
and  our  shadows  sped  beside  us,  like  ghosts  in 
the  moonlight.  Now  we  came  upon  a  group  of 
cottages,  only  hidden  from  Stoneycroft  Hall  by 
a  bend  in  the  road — now  upon  the  pound,  and 
the  pond,  and  the  old  house,  where  lights  were 
moving  to  and  fro  in  the  windows.  We  found 
the  gate  open — (I  was  glad  of  it,  for  we  should 
certainly  have  taken  the  leap,  had  it  been 
closed) — and  dashed  up  to  the  door  at  full 
gallop.  A  touch  of  the  rein,  a  word,  and  Satan, 
foaming  and  quivering  as  he  was,  stood  stone- 
still,  like  a  horse  carved  in  black  marble. 

Mr.  Farquhar  dismounted  with  me  in  his 
arms,  and  raised  his  whip  to  knock  upon  the 
door  ;  but  it  opened  before  the  blow  fell,  and  my 
aunt,  candle  in  hand,  narrowly  escaped  the 
whip-handle.  She  looked  pale  and  stern; 
opened  her  lips  as  if  to  question  ;  then,  seeing 
my  frightened  face  peep  out  from  the  furs, 
uttered  a  sharp  cry,  and  dropped  the  candle. 
"Found!   found!     Jane,  come  her!     Oh! 


Bab — naughty,  naughty  Bab,  what  an  evening 
this  has  been !" 

And  with  this,  half-crying,  half-laughing,  she 
snatched  me  up,  kissed,  cuffed,  and  shook  me 
all  together,  and  knew  not  whether  to  be  glad  or 
angry.  Then  Jane  came  running  up  with  lights, 
and  there  was  more  kissing  and  scolding  ;  and 
then  we  all  stood  still,  and  paused  for  breath. 
My  aunt  turned  from  me  to  Mr.  Farquhar, 

"  And  it  is  to  this  gentleman  that  I  am  indebt- 
ed for  the  return  of  my  truant  ?"  said  she,  fixing 
her  keen  eyes  inquiringly  upon  him,  "  How  can 
I  ever  thank  him  enough-?" 

"  Simply  by  not  thanking  me  at  all,"  said  he, 
standing  by  the  porch  with  the  bridle  over  his 
arm,  and  speaking  for  the  first  time,  "  Indeed, 
before  we  talk  of  obligations,  I  should  beg  your 
pardon ;  for,  upon  my  soul,  madam,  I  was  near 
making  your  acquaintance  by  knocking  you 
down !" 

"  Sir,"  replied  my  aunt  with  a  stately  rever- 
ence, for  she  could  be  immensely  formal  upon 
occasion,  "  I  rejoice  to  make  yours  upon  any 
terms," 

"  Then  let  me  name  them.  Forgive  this  little 
girl  for  the  alarm  she  has  caused  you.  The 
fault  was  mine.  I  met  her  near  my  house,  fell 
into  chat  with  her,  and  thoughtlessly  took  her 
indoors  to  see  a  picture.  How  the  time  slipped 
by,  I  scarcely  know ;  but  we  were  amused  with 
one  another,  and  I  believe  that  neither ,  of  us 
thought  of  the  consequences  till  after  dinner. 
It  is  now  just  twenty  minutes  since  the  word 
'  home'  was  first  uttered,  and  I  flatter  myself 
that  no  time  has  been  lost  on  the  way.  I  pro- 
mised to  plead  for  her — nay,  more,  I  promised 
her  your  pardon." 

My  aunt  looked  grave,  or  tried  to  do  so,  I 
believe  she  was  almost  glad  to  be  obliged  to 
forgive  me, 

"  I  redeem  your  promise,  sir,"  said  she,  "  in 
acknowledgment  of  the  trouble  you  have  taken 
in  bringing  her  home ;  though,  but  for  your  in- 
tercession" (shaking  her  head  at  me),  "  I  must, 
have  punished  her.  I  exact  obedience,  and  I 
will  have  it.  Bab — thank  the  gentleman  for  his 
kindness.     Sir,  please  to  walk  in." 

"  Not  to-night,  I  thank  you,"  said  he  courte- 
ously. "  It  is  already  late,  and  my  little  friend 
looks  weary.     If,  however,  I  may  call  at  some 

more  reasonable  hour " 

"  You  will  be  welcome,"  interrupted  my  aunt 
with  one  of  her  abrupt  nods.  "You  will  be 
very  welcome.  May  I  ask  your  name  before 
you  go  ?  Your  face  is  strange  to  me,  and  yet 
I  seem  to  have  some  knowledge  of  it." 

Mr.  Farquhar  smiled ;  drew  a  card  from  his 
pocket-book  ;  gave  it  to  me  with  a  kiss  ;  bade 
me  hand  it  to  my  aunt ;  sprang  into  the  saddle  ; 
took  his  hat  quite  ofiP,  and  bowed  profoundly ; 
cried  out  "good  night, joe^i^e,"  and  dashed  away 
at  full  speed  down  the  garden. 

"  Humph  !"  said  my  aunt,  shading  her  eyes 
from  the  candle  and  watching  him  to  the  turn 
of  the  road,  "  a  fine  horse,  and  a  reckless  rider. 
Let's  see  who  he  is.  Mercy  alive !  Farquhab 
OF  Broomhill  !" 


26 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

A   CITIZEN   OF   THE   WORLD. 

*'  Thou  knowest  I  hunger  after  wisdom,  as  the  Red 
Sea  after  ghosts:  therefore  I  travel." 

Death's  Jest-Book. 

Some  days  went  by,  and  Hugh  Farquhar's  pro- 
mised visit  remained  unpaid.  I  rose  every 
morning  with  the  hope  tliat  he  would  come  be- 
fore night,  and  I  went  to  bed  every  night  dis- 
consolate. I  waited  for  him — I  wearied  for  him 
— I  was  as  much  in  love  with  him  as  any  little 
girl  of  ten  years  old  could  be  !  I  brooded  over 
every  word  that  he  had  uttered ;  strove  to  draw 
his  portrait,  and  tore  up  each  abortive  outline  as 
soon  as  it  was  made ;  recalled  the  last  tones  of 
his  voice,  the  last  echo  of  his  horse's  hoofs,  and 
the  parting  kiss  that  he  had  given  me  in  the 
porch.  He  was  still  my  hero,  and  a  more 
heroic  hero  than  ever — Prince  Camaralzaman, 
with  a^dash  of  Robin  Hood  now,  and  a  spice  of 
the  Wild  Huntsman !  I  believe,  on  looking 
back  to  this  childish  passion,  that  it  was  most 
of  all  the  power  of  the  man  that  attracted  me. 
He  was  altogether  older  and  plainer  than  I  had 
pictured  him ;  and  yet  that  sense  of  power 
pleased  me  better  than  youth  or  beauty.  It  was 
power  of  every  kind — of  health,  and  courage, 
and  daring — of  the  mind  and  the  will — of  free- 
dom and  fortune.  His  wealth  I  believed  bound- 
less; and  Broomhill,  with  its  portrait-gallery, 
its  corridors,  and  stately  suites,  reminded  me  of 
Aladdin's  palace.  His  mode  of  life,  too,  had 
something  strange  and  solitary  in  it.  There 
was  a  mystery  and  a  charm  in  the  gloom  that 
sometimes  fell  upon  him.  There  was  an  oriental 
romance  in  the  very  food  he  ate,  in  the  pipe  he 
smoked,  in  Tippoo  the  noiseless,  and  in  Satan 
the  swift !  I  could  do  nothing,  in  short,  but 
talk  and  dream  of  Farquhar  of  Broomhill. 

My  aunt  said  very  little  about  him,  and 
listened  with  assumed  indifference  to  all  I  had 
to  tell.  That  she  was  interested,  however,  and 
that  she  not  only  listened  but  remembered, 
I  knew  to  a  certainty  ;  for  I  heard  her  repeat- 
ing it  next  morning,  word  for  word,  as  she  and 
Dr.  Topham  paced  up  and  down  the  garden- 
walk  together.  From  this  moment  the  train 
was  fired,  and  the  news  spread.  Carried  from 
parish  to  parish,  and  from  house  to  house,  it 
was  known,  as  if  by  telegraph,  throughout  the 
county.  Alas  for  Hugh  Farquhar  ! — his  incog- 
nito was  soon  over. 

At  length  there  came  a  day  when  my  aunt 
and  I  were  sitting  together  after  dinner,  beside 
the  open  window.  There  had  been  rain,  and 
the  atmosphere  was  damp  and  close,  like  that 
of  a  hot-house.  Not  a  breath  stirred  ;  not  a 
bird  sang ;  not  a  leaf  rustled.  A  voluptuous 
languor  pervaded  all  the  drowsy  air — a  subtle 
perfume  uprose  from  the  reeking  earth — a  faint 
mist  obscured  the  landscape.  Yielding  to  the 
influences  of  the  hour,  my  aunt  had  fallen 
asleep  with  the  newspaper  in  her  hand,  whilst 
I,  perched  on  the  broad  window-seat  with  my 
silks  and  sampler,  suffered  the  work  to  lie  un- 
heeded in  my  lap,  rested  my  chin  upon  my  two 
palms  in  an  odd,  old-fashioned  way,  and  counted 
the  drops  as  they  fell  one  by  one  from  the  broad 
leaves  of  the  heavy-headed  sun-flower  outside 
in  the  garden.  A  long  time  went  by  thus,  and 
was  meted  out  by  the  ticking  of  the  old  watch 


over  the  fireplace— a  long,  long  time,  during 
which  only  one  solitary  pedestrian  trudged  past, 
with  an  umbrella  over  his  shoulder.  All  at  once, 
remote  but  growing  rapidly  nearer,  I  heard 
the  quick  echo  of  a  well-remembered  gallop  ! 
Louder,  closer,  faster  it  came.  I  felt  the  blood 
rush  to  my  face — I  held  my  breath — I  strained 
my  eyes  to  that  one  spot  where  there  was  an 
opening  in  the  trees — tlien,  springing  suddenly 
to  my  feet,  I  grasped  Mrs.  Sandyshaft  by  the 
arm,  and  cried — 

"  Oh,  wake  up,  aunt !  wake  up  !     Here   he 
comes  at  last !    I  knew  he  must  come  some  day  !" 
"He?    What?  Who?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  San- 
dyshaft, bewildered  and  half  asleep.     "  What 
noise  is  that  ?" 

"  That's  Satan,  aunt !  Hark,  how  fast  he's 
coming  !" 

My  aunt  became  rigid. 

"  Satan  !"  she  repeated.  "  Mercy  on  us  !  The 
child's  demented." 

I  could  only  point  triumphantly  to  the  gate 
where  Mr.  Farquhar  had  that  moment  dismount- 
ed, and  was  tying  up  his  horse.  My  aunt  re- 
laxed, and  smiled  grimly. 

"  Oh,  call  him  Satan,  do  you  ?"  said  she.  "  Not 
a  bad  name,  Bab — might  suit  the  master  as  well 
the  beast,  eh  ?" 

Whereupon  I  rushed  away  without  replying, 
and,  encountering  him  in  the  porch,  became  sud- 
denly shy,  and  had  not  a  word  to  say.  Seeing 
me,  he  smiled  and  held  out  both  his  hands. 

"  EccoUP^  said  he.  "  The  very  Barbara  of 
my  thoughts !  How  does  your  grace  to-day  ? 
Well,  I  trust,  and  undisturbed  by  the  late  fluc- 
tuations in  tho -funds,  or  the  changes  in  the  min- 
istrv?  What  news  of  the  pigs  and  the  fine 
arts'?" 

Blushing  and  puzzled,  I  lingered  with  my 
hand  in  his,  and  knew  not  what  to  answer. 

"  How  !  not  a  word  ?  not  a  greeting  ?  not  a 
mere  '■give  you  good  den,  Sir  Richard?''  Oh, 
faithless  Barbara ! — and  to  think  that  I  have 
brought  a  box  of  Turkish  sweatmeats  for  you, 
in  my  pocket !  Come,  are  you  not  glad  to  see 
me  now?" 

And  he  took  out  a  pretty  little  box  of  inlaid 
woods,  and  held  it  playfully  before  my  eyes.  I 
snatched  away  my  hand  and  drew  back. 

"  I  am  not  glad  for  the  sake  of  what  you  give 
me,"  said  I,  grievously  hurt ;  and  so  ran  on  to 
the  parlor  door,  and  left  him  to  follow.  My 
aunt  held  up  her  finger  at  me — she  had  heard 
every  word — and  advanced  to  meet  him. 

"  Sir,"  she  began,  "  I  am  glad  to  see  you  ;  and 
you  are  the  first  of  your  name  to  whom  I  ever 
said  so.     Sit  down." 

Mr.  Farquhar  smiled,  bowed,  and  took  the 
proffered  seat. 

"  I  hope,  sir,"  continued  my  aunt,  "  that  you 
have  come  to  settle  amongst  us.  You  have  been 
too  long  away.  Traveling  is  a  fool's  Paradise ; 
and  you  must  have  sown  your  wild  oats  by  this 
time." 

Mr.  Farquhar  looked  infinitely  amused. 

"  Madam,"  said  he,  "  it  is  a  branch  of  agricul- 
ture to  which  I  have  been  assiduously  devoting 
myself  for  the  last  five  years." 

"  Humph  !  And  now  you  have  come  back 
for  good  ?" 

"  I  should  be  sorry  to  believe  that  I  have  come 
back  for  evil." 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


27 


My  aunt  fixed  her  eyes  sharply  upon  him,  and 
shook  her  head. 

"  That's  not  what  I  mean,  Mr.  Farquhar," 
said  she.  "  I  want  to  know  if  you  are  going  to 
live  on  your  own  lands,  lead  the  life  of  an  Eng- 
lish gentleman,  and  marry  a  wife  ?" 

"  I  had  rather  marry  a  maid,"  retorted  he, 
with  the  same  provoking  smile,  ''  and  sooner 
thain  either,  Mrs.  Sandyshaft,  I  would  remain  a 
bachelor.  As  to  living  on  my  own  lands,  I  may 
aver  that  I  have  done  so  ever  since  I  left  Eng- 
land ;  for  as  my  steward  can  testify,  I  have 
drawn  my  rents  with  the  most  conscientious 
regularity." 

"  And  spent  them  too,  I'll  warrant,"  said  my 
aunt,  grimly. 

Whereupon  Mr.  Farquhar  laughed,  and  made 
no  reply. 

"  England  is  the  best  place  after  all,"  observed 
she,  returning  to  the  charge.     "  The  o/i/^lace  !" 

"For  fogs  and  fox-hunts,  granted." 

"  For  liberty  of  the  press,  public  spirit,  domes- 
tic comfort,  and  national  respectability !  Find 
me  the  French  for  'common-sense,'  Mr.  Farqu- 
har !" 

*'  Find  me  the  French  for  the  verb  '  to  grum- 
ble !' " 

"  I  should  be  sorry  if  I  could,"  said  my  aunt, 
rubbing  her  hands,  and  enjoying  the  argument 
with  her  whole  heart.  "  'Tis  a  national  char- 
acteristic— a  national  amusement — a  national  in- 
stitution !" 

"And  the  exclusive  privilege  of  the  British 
Lion,"  added  Mr.  Farquhar,  with  a  shrug  of  the 
shoulders.  "  Allans  .^  I  am  a  citizen  of  the 
world — a  vagrant  by  nature —  a  cosmopolitan  at 
heart.  I  confess  to  little  of  the  patriotic  spirit, 
and  much  of  the  Bohemian.  London  porter 
tastes  no  better  in  my  mouth  than  '  Hungary 
wine,'  and  between  Kabohs  and  mutton-chops  I 
find  but  little  difference  !" 

My  aunt  held  up  her  hands  in  amazement. 

"Young  man,"  said  she,  "  your  opinions  are 
detestable.  You  don' t  deserve  to  have  eight  cen- 
turies of  ancestors.  No  patriotic  spirit,  indeed  I 
Mercy  alive  !  What's  your  opinion,  pray,  of  the 
English  history  ?" 

"My  dear  madam,  I  think  it  an  admirable 
work — for  the  library-shelves." 

"  Have  you  ever  read  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  in  my  boyish  days,  when  I  believed  in 
Messrs.  Hume  and  Smollett,  looked  on  Charles 
the  First  as  a  genuine  Royal  Martyr,  and  pinned 
my  faith  upon  the  virgin  purity  of  Queen  Eliza- 
beth !" 

My  aunt  smiled  in  spite  of  herself. 

"  I  fear,"  said  she,  "  that  you  are  a  sad  scape- 
grace, and  believe  in  very  little." 

"  Que-voulez-vous  ?  The  world  has  rubbed  off 
most  of  my  illusions." 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  you.  The  happiest 
man  is  the  most  credulous." 

"  Then  is  the  ass  the  most  enviable  of  quad- 
rupeds !  I  cry  you  mercy,  madam  !  Let  those 
be  dupes  who  will — '  I'll  none  of  it.'  Is  it  not 
better  to  see  things  as  they  are,  and  take  them 
at  their  value  ? — to  distinguish  between  base 
metal  and  gold,  paste  and  brilliants  ?  Now,  for 
my  part,  I  had  rather  know  at  the  first  glance 
that  my  mistress's  front-teeth  were  false,  than 
live  to  be  told  of  it  by  some  officious  friend 
who  met  her  at  the  dentist's  !" 


"  Sir,"  said  my  aunt,  emphatically,  "  I  see 
nothing  for  you  but  a  strict  course  of  matrimony." 

"  Then  your  opinion  of  my  case  is,  indeed, 
serious  !" 

"  You  must  settle  in  England,"  continued  my 
aunt.  "  You  must  see  society.  You  must  mar- 
ry. A  good-tempered,  kind-hearted,  well-edu- 
cated English  girl  is  what  you  want ;  and  I  know 
of  four  or  five  in  this  very  county,  all  of  whom 
would  suit  you  to  a  T." 

"  Then  I  will  marry  them  all." 

"  No,  you  won't,  indeed  !  You  are  in  a  civil- 
ized country  here,  sir,  and  not  among  Turks 
and  savages.  Marry  them  all,  hey  ?  I  like  the 
idea!" 

"/should  prefer  the  reality  !" 

My  aunt  shook  her  head  impatiently. 

"  Nonsense  !"  said  she.  "  I  am  in  earnest, 
and  advise  you  as  a  friend.  You  want  a  wife, 
and,  I  repeat  it,  you  must  marry." 

"Spoken  ex  cathedrd^^''  observed  Mr.  Farqu- 
har, parenthetically. 

"There's  —  let  me  see  —  there's  Sir  John 
Crompton's  daughter,"  continued  my  aunt,  tell- 
ing off  the  young  ladies  on  her  fingers,  "  and 
there's  Miss  Heathcote,  with  thirty  thousand 
pounds;  and  there  are  the  two  Somervilles, 
daughters  of  the  Dean  of  Wrentham,  and " 

"  My  dear  lady,"  interrupted  Mr.  Farquhar, 
"  before  you  go  on  with  your  list,  tell  me  what 
chance  I  have  of  becoming  acquainted  with  these 
Sirens  ?  Shall  I  advertise  myself  in  the  '  Ipswich 
Herald,'  or  hang  a  label  round  my  neck  with 
the  words  '  to  let  '  printed  thereon  in  golden 
characters  ?" 

"  Neither,  sir.  You  shall  send  for  paper-hang- 
ers, upholsterers,  and  confectioners ;  put  your 
house  in  order;  and  issue  invitations  to  a  ball." 

"Not  for  a  kingdom.  What!  pull  the  old 
place  about  my  ears,  and  submit  to  an  invasion 
of  flirts  and  fiddlers  ?  No,  madam — I  have  too 
much  respect  for  the  spiders !" 

"  In  that  case,"  said  my  aunt,  *'  I  will  give  a 
party  myself." 

"  I'll  never  believe  it,  Mrs.  S.  !"  cried  a  voice 
at  the  door.     "  It's  a  fiction,  a  fable — 

'  a  tale  * 

Told  by  an  idiot,  full  of  sound  and  fury, 
Signifying  nothing  !' " 

"Topham,"  observed  my  aunt,  "you  are  a 
fool.  Come  in,  will  you,  and  be  introduced  to 
Mr.  Farquhar  of  Broomhill." 

Dr.  Topham  came  in,  hat,  umbrella,  and  all, 
and  solemnly  deposited  those  properties  on  the 
table. 

"  You  have  mentioned  that  circumstance  so 
often,  Mrs.  S.,"  said  he,  "  that  I  begin  to  fancy 
I  must  be  a  fool,  after  all.  I  shall  charge  my 
cap  and  bells  to  your  account.  Don't  trouble 
yourself,  ma'am,  to  make  me  known  to  Mr. 
Farquhar.  I  can  do  that  for  myself.  Sir,  shake 
hands.  You  and  I  are  old  friends,  and  our  ac- 
quaintance dates  back  for  more  than  a  quarter 
of  a  century.  Introductions,  forsooth  !  Why, 
sir,  it  was  I  who  first  had  the  pleasure  of  intro- 
ducing you  to  your  own  father !  I  dare  say  you 
don't  remember  that  event  so  accurately  as  I 
do?" 

A  shade,  a  trouble,  an  indescribable  some- 
thing flitted  over  Hugh  Farquhar's  sunburnt 
face,  at  these  words. 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


"Indeed!"  said  he,  in  a  low  voice.  "  Then 
you  knew  my  mother  ?" 

*'  I  did — a  most  excellent  and  beautiful  lady, 
charitable,  sincere,  and  earnest.  She  was  be- 
loved by  rich  and  poor,  and  for  many  a  year  her 
name  remained  a  household  word  throughout 
this  countryside." 
Mr.  Farquhar  bent  his  head  gravely. 
"You  do  her  justice,  sir,"  he  said;  and 
turned  away  with  a  sigh. 

There  was  a  silence  of  some  moments,  during 
which  Dr.  Topham  and  my  aunt  exchanged  bel- 
ligerent glances,  and  looked  as  if  longing  to  be- 
gin their  accustomed  squabble.  Presently  Hugh 
Farquhar  spoke  again. 

"It  surprises  me.  Dr.  Topham,"  said  he, 
"that  I  have  no  recollection  of  your  face. 
Your  name  I  seem  to  have  heard  before ;  and 
yet,  when  I  was  a  lad  and  used  to  come  home 
from  Eton  and  Oxford  for  the  vacations,  it  was 
Mr.  Stanley  who " 

"  Precisely  so.  Mr.  Stanley  of  Normanbridge," 
interrupted  the  doctor.  "  Your  father  and  I 
could  never  agree,  Mr.  Farquhar.  We  had  a 
grand  fracas,  in  fact ;  and  though  your  mother 
did  her  best  to  reconcile  us,  the  breach  was 
never  healed.  Mr.  Stanley  is  a  very  clever 
man — too  fond  of  the  lancet,  though !  Too 
fond  of  the  lancet !" 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  doctor,"  said  my  aunt, 
acidly.  "  You're  all  a  set  of  murderers.  Some 
prefer  steel,  and  some  poison — that's  the  only 
difference." 

"  Much  obliged,  Mrs.  S.  I  reserve  my  ven- 
geance till  you  next  have  occasion  for  my  serv- 
ices." 

Hugh  Farquhar  laughed,  and  rose  to  take  his 
leave. 

"  War  being  declared,"  said  he,  "  I  will  leave 
you  to  fight  it  out  fairly.  Dr.  Topham,  will  you 
come  up  and  smoke  a  pipe  of  Turkish  tobacco 
with  me  to-morrow  evening  ?  At  present  I  am 
but  a  hermit,  and  live  in  a  turret  by  myself,  like 
a  mouse  in  a  trap ;  but  I  shall  be  glad  to  see 
and  know  more  of  you.  Mrs.  Sandyshaft,  you 
must  let  me  know  when  you  have  chosen  a  wife 
for  me.  If  you  could  allow  me  to  see  the  lady 
before  we  meet  at  the  altar,  I  should  prefer  it ; 
but,  for  mercy's  sake,  don't  marry  me  un- 
awares !" 

"  You  shall  choose  for  yourself,  Mr.  Far- 
quhar," replied  my  aunt.  "I  mean  to  give  that 
party,  I  assure  you." 

"Not  on  my  account,  pray !" 

"  Yes,  on  your  account,  solely — ^therefore  you 
will  be  bound  to  come  to  it." 

And  with  this  they  shook  hands,  and  parted. 
As  Mr.  Farquhar  left  the  room,  he  beckoned  me 
to  follow,  and  walked  with  me  silently  to  the 
garden  gate.     There  he  paused. 

"  Barbara,"  he  said  gently,  "  why  were  you 
so  angry  just  now,  when  I  offered  you  that 
box?" 

I  hung  my  head,  and  could  find  no  words  to 
reply. 

"  If  you  had  known,"  he  continued,  in  the 
same  tone,  "  what  trouble  it  gave  me  to  find 
those  bonbons^  and  how  many  hundreds  of  miles 
they  have  traveled  with  me,  and  with  what 
pleasure  I  put  them  in  my  pocket  to-day  (hoping 
to  please  you),  I  don't  think,  petite,  that  you 
yould  have  treated  me  quite  so  ungraciously." 


I  felt  myself  tremble  and  change  color. 

"I — I— it  wasn't  that  I  was  ungrateful,"  I 
faltered.  "But  you  said,  'Are  you  glad  to  see 
me  now?'' — I  was  glad  before!  I  heard  you 
when  you  were  a  mile  away,  and  knew  that 
it  was  you  !  I  —  I  have  been  at  the  window 
looking  for  you  all  the  week !  Oh,  pray  forgive 
me — I  was  not  ungrateful !" 

Mr.  Farquhar  looked  at  me  very  earnestly, 
and  with  something  like  astonishment  in  his 
face. 

"  Why,  Barbara  mia,'*^  said  he,  "  you  are  the 
most  tender-hearted  little  maid  that  ever  I  met ! 
Come,  let  us  be  friends.  By  Jove,  I  believe  it 
was  my  fault,  after  all !" 

And  with  this  he  stooped,  and  kissed  away 
two  large  tears  which  were  stealing  down  my 
cheeks. 

"Will  you  take  the  box  now,  for  my  sake  ?" 
he  whispered  —  then,  with  a  last  kiss,  placed 
it  in  my  hands,  riiounted,  and  galloped  away. 

I  watched  him  out  of  sight,  wondering  if  he 
would  look  back.  He  never  so  much  as  glanc- 
ed to  the  right  or  left;  but  rode  straight  on, 
and  vanished  round  the  bend  of  the  road. 


CHAPTER  IX. 
A    child's    love. 

"  Love  sought  is  good ;  but  given  unsought  is  better." 

Shakspeare. 

Hugh  Farquhar's  first  visit  was  followed, 
not  long  after,  by  a  second  and  a  third  ;  so  that 
he  soon  became  a  recognized  habitue  of  the 
house.  His  favorite  time  was  twilight ;  and  he 
used  to  ride  up  to  the  porch,  tie  Satan  by  the 
bridle,  and  walk  in  without  announcement. 
My  aunt  then  laid  aside  her  paper ;  grumbled  at 
him  heartily,  if  he  awoke  her  from  her  nap ; 
and  prepared  for  a  chat.  Sometimes  I  sat  aside 
in  a  dark  corner,  and  fell  to  my  old  occupation 
of  watching  him  till  it  grew  too  dusk  to  see  his 
face  distinctly;  after  which  I  was  content  only 
to  listen  to  his  voice.  Sometimes,  for  I  was  a 
great  pet  now,  and  highly  privileged,  I  took  a 
little  stool  at  his  feet,  and  laid  my  head  against 
his  knee,  and  was  almost  too  happy.  When, 
perchance,  he  interrupted  his  conversation  to 
address  a  stray  word  to  me ;  or,  in  the  listless- 
ness  of  thought,  passed  his  hand  through  the 
wavy  folds  of  my  long  hair,  I  trembled  and  held 
my  breath,  lest  any  motion  of  mine  should 
cause  him  to  take  it  away  the  sooner.  What  I 
would  have  given  to  dare  to  kiss  that  hand  mat- 
ters not  now.  It  was  a  child's  idolatry — an 
idolatry  so  innocent,  unselfish,  and  spiritual,  as 
few  feel  more  than  once,  if  once,  in  life.. 

My  aunt  and  he  suited  each  other,  after  their 
own  odd  antagonistic  fashion.  They  always  dif- 
fered in  opinion,  for  the  sake  of  argument  and  the 
pleasure  of  wrangling ;  but  I  believe  th(iy  often 
agreed  at  heart.  My  aunt  had  read  much ;  and, 
despite  her  crotchets  and  prejudices,  could  both 
speak  and  think  well  when  she  chose.  Books, 
history,  politics,  foreign  life  and  manners,  agri- 
culture, and  the  arts,  formed  the  staple  subjects 
of  their  talk ;  and  about  each  and  all,  Hugh 
Farquhar  had  something  amusing  and  original 
to  say.  His  conversation  was  peculiar,  frag- 
mentary, discursive,  idiocratic.  When  thor- 
oughly at  his  ease  and  "  i'  the  vein,"  he  wan- 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


29 


dered  on  from  topic  to  topic,  from  jest  to 
earnest,  and  thought  aloud,  rather  than  con- 
versed. His  memory  was  prodigious.  He  knew 
Shakspeare  and  his  cotemporaries  by  heart, 
and  was  so  thoroughly  steeped  in  the  spirit  of 
that  age  that  his  very  phraseology  had  often- 
times an  Elizabethan  flavor.  Sometimes  dreamy, 
sometimes  sad,  sometimes  sarcastic — varying  in 
his  mood  with  every  turn  of  the  argument  — 
breaking  into  "flashes  of  merriment"  and  un- 
expected sparkles  of  wit — abounding  in  quaint 
scraps  of  dry  and  dusty  philosophies,  and  in 
quotations  as  apt  as  they  were  sometimes  whim- 
sical, Hugh  Farquhar  talked  as  few  can  talk, 
and  fewer  still  can  write.  To  record  his  con- 
versation is,  therefore,  singularly  difficult  —  to 
preserve  its  aroma,  impossible.  I  should  con- 
ceive, from  what  we  read  of  those  tea-table 
talks  at  the  little  waterside  house  in  Is)kigton, 
that  Charles  Lamb's  familiar  parlance  may  have 
been  somewhat  similar — more  exquisitely  play- 
ful, perhaps,  and  more  sensitively  sympathetic — 
certainly  less  caustic.  Both,  at  all  events,  were 
in  the  rapidity  of  their  hues  and  changes, 
kaleidoscopic.  I  learned  much  from  these  twi- 
light gossips  ;  and  though  I  might  not  always 
understand,  I  always  enjoyed  them.  Granted 
that  the  topics  and  opinions  mooted  on  both 
sides  were  generally  in  advance  of  my  actual 
knowledge,  they  set  me  thinking,  and  perhaps 
did  more  toward  the  premature  development  of 
my  intellect  than  could  have  been  effected  by 
any  set  system  of  training.  At  the  same  time 
it  must  be  confessed  that  my  actual  education 
was,  in  some  degree,  at  a  standstill,  A  couple 
of  hours  devoted  each  morning  to  Gibbon,  Gold- 
smith, or  Buffon,  and  another  hour  or  so  to  the 
Parliamentary  debates  every  afternoon,  scarcely 
deserves  the  name  of  education ;  and,  but  for 
other  circumstances,  would  have  done  little  to 
improve  me.  I  was  free,  however,  of  my  aunt's 
book-case,  of  the  fields,  the  sunlight,  and  the 
fresh  air.  I  read  more,  saw  more,  felt  more 
than  I  had  ever  read,  seen,  or  felt  in  all  my  life 
before.  Above  all,  I  was  happy;  and  happi- 
ness derived  from,  and  dependent  on,  the  love 
of  those  who  are  better  and  wiser  than  we,  is, 
in  itself,  an  education. 

Thus  the  weeks  went  by,  and  the  autumn 
waned,  and  still  Hugh  Farquhar  dwelt  alone  in 
his  solitary  tower,  and  became,  as  I  have  al- 
ready said,  a  frequent  guest  at  Sfbneycroft 
Hall.  As  the  days  grew  shorter  and  the  twihght 
encroached  upon  our  dinner-hour,  he  took  to 
coming  later,  and  often  rode  over  between  eight 
and  nine  to  drink  coffee  and  play  piquet  with 
my  aunt.  Scarcely  a  week  passed  that  he  did 
not  send  her  a  present  of  game,  or  the  latest 
parcel  of  books  and  magazines  from  London ; 
while  to  me  he  never  failed  to  bring  some 
pretty  trifle — a  tiny  Swiss  Chalet  bought  at 
Berne,  a  coral  toy  from  Naples,  a  Chinese  puz- 
zle,  or  a  string  of  Indian  wampum.  He  cer- 
tainly spared  no  pains  to  place  himself  upon  the 
footing  of  an  intimate ;  though  why  he  should 
have  done  so,  and  what  pleasure  he  could  find 
in  the  society  of  an  eccentric  old  lady  and  a  shy 
little  girl  of  ten,  seems  unaccountable  enough. 
Whether  he  meant  to  stay  in  England,  o'r 
whether  he  was  here  for  only  a  few  months, 
remained  as  great  a  mystery  as  at  first.  He 
would  either  give  no  answer  when  questioned, 


or  declare  that  he  knew  no  more  than  we  — 
cared,  perhaps,  even  less — had  no  wish  to  set- 
tle, and  preferred  to  keep  "  one  foot  in  sea,  and 
one  on  shore,"  for,  at  least,  a  few  years  longer. 

"  But  surely,"  said  my  aunt,  assailing  him 
one  evening  on  this  her  favorite  topic,  "  surely 
you  have  some  definite  plans  ?" 

"Plans,  my  dear  Mrs.  Sandyshaft?"  he  ex- 
claimed.    "  Not  I,  indeed.     Heaven  forbid  !" 

"  Well,  then,  some  regard  for  the  future?"  ^ 

"  None.  Oggi  is  my  motto,  and  domani  may 
go  to  the  devil !" 

My  aunt  shook  her  head  gravely,  and  looked 
shocked. 

"  You  are  wrong,"  said  she ;  "  young,  wrong, 
and  headstrong.  You  don't  look  at  life  seri- 
ously enough.     You  don't " 

"  Pardon  me,  I  look  at  it,  perhaps,  too  seri- 
ously. If  you  imagine  that  I  make  of  it  one 
idle  holiday,  you  mistake  me  altogether.  I  do 
no  such  thing.  I  look  upon  it  as  a  very  sad, 
wearyful,  unsatisfactory  affair ;  and  because  to- 
day is  so  burdensome,  I  care  little  for  the  events 
of  to-morrow.  I  love  to  drift  from  day  to  day, 
like  a  weed  from  wave  to  wave ;  and  it  seems 
to  me  that  the  philosophies  of  all  time  are  com- 
prised in  that  sentence  of  Sadi  the  Persian  : — 

'  'Tis  better  to  sit  than  to  stand ; 
'Tis  better  to  be  in  bed  than  sitting  ; 
'Tis  better  to  be  dead  than  in  bed.' " 

"  Wherefore,"  observed  my  aunt  dryly,  "  you 
choose  a  life  of  incessant  activity.  Nonsense  ! 
Drift  here,  if  drifting  suits  you  ;  and  i|  lying  in 
bed  be  so  very  philosophical,  lie  in  bed  at 
Broomhill." 

"First  provide  me  with  that  model  wife,  Mrs. 
Sandyshaft !" 

"Besides,"  continued  my  aunt,  "there  are 
duties  arising  from  your  position.  You  have  a 
stake  in  the  country,  and " 

"  And  a  very  tough  one  it  is !"  interrupted 
he,  laughingly.  "I  prefer  a  cotelette  d  la 
Soubise,  served  at  the  Maison  Doree  /" 

Whereupon  my  aunt  waxed  wroth,  cited  Dr. 
Johnson's  opinion  on  the  making  of  puns  and 
the  picking  of  pockets,  and  abandoned  the  siege 
for  that  evening. 

Not  many  nights  after  this,  he  came  again. 
It  was  the  first  frost  of  the  season  ;  and, 
though  he  had  ridden  fast  and  wore  his  great 
fur  coat,  he  complained  bitterly  of  the  climate. 

"  Climate !"  repeated  my  aunt,  "  Bless  the 
man  !  what  better  climate  can  he  desire,  I 
should '  like  to  know  ?  Chmate,  indeed,  with 
such  a  coat  as  that  on  his  back !" 

"  '  The  owl  for  all  his  feathers  was  a-cold  !'  " 
quoted  Hugh  Farquhar,  hanging  over  the  fire 
hke  a  half-frozen  Kamschatkan. 

My  aunt  piled  on  more  coals,  rang  for  coffee, 
and  muttered  something  about  "  salamanders  " 
and  "  fire-worshipers." 

"Do  you  wonder  that  I  freeze,"  said  he, 
"  when  for  five  years  I  have  known  no  winter  ? 
My  Decembers  and  Januarys  have  all  been 
spent  in  South  Italy,  the  East,  or  the  tropics. 
Last  Christmas  Eve  I  lay  awake  all  night  in  the 
deep  grass  on  a  ledge  of  one  of  the  Chilian 
Andes,  looking  up  to  the  Centaur  and  the 
Southern  Cross,  with  not  even  a  cloak  for  my 
counterpane.  The  year  before  that,  I  ate  my 
roast-beef  and  plum-pudding  with  the  oflELcers 


80 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


of  the  Fourth  Light  Dragoons  in  Calcutta.  'Tis 
no  laughing  matter,  let  me  tell  you,  to  come 
back  to  this  infernal  land  of  fog  and  frost,  after 
wandering  for  five  long  years 

'  where  Universal  Pan, 

Knit  with  the  Graces  and  the  Hours  in  dance, 

Leads  on  the  Eternal  Spring  !" 

Pshaw !  Dante  was  of  my  mind  when  he  made 
the  lowest  circle  of  hell  an  icy  region,  and  im- 
bedded His  Majesty  in  the  midst  of  it !" 

"  If  you  had  been  content  to  live  respectably 
in  your  own  country,"  said  my  aunt,  testily, 
"  you'd  never  have  felt  any  diflference.  Will 
you  take  some  brandy  with  your  coffee  ?  I  hate 
to  hear  people's  teeth  clattering  like  castanets  !" 

"'Tis  'a  spirit  of  health,'  and  I  will  not  re- 
fuse to  entertain  it.  Barharina  mia,  will  you 
vouchsafe  to  kiss  me  this  evening  ?  So  !  There's 
a  shy  little  salute  !  Your  ladyship  is  chary  of 
your  rosy  lips,  methinks !  Ah  !  did  you  but  know 
what  I  have  brought  to  show  you,  and  which  of 
my  pockets  it  is  in  !  A  sketch  book,  petite — a 
sketch-book  full  of  pictures !" 

My  hands  were  diving  into  his  pockets  in  an 
instant ;  for,  by  this  time,  those  pockets  were 
familiar  ground.  The  first  thing  I  brought  out 
was  a  little  square  packet,  sealed  at  both  ends — 
the  second,  a  book  with  a  silver  clasp.  . 

''  Stop,"  said  he,  taking  the  former  from  me, 
and  breaking  the  seals  that  fastened  it,  "this  is 
a  pack  of  cards,  Mrs.  Sandyshaft,  which  I  pro- 
pose to  play  our  piquet  with  to-night.  Pray 
observe  them,  and  tell  me  which  are  trumps." 

Saying,  which,  he  dealt  out  some  twenty  or 
thirty  visiting  card^  in  rapid  succession,  laughing 
heartly  the  while  to  see  my  aunt's  amazement. 

"  General  Kirby— Mr.  Fuller — Mrs.  Fuller— 
The  Rev.  Edward  Grote  —  Sir  John  and  Lady 
Crompton — Miss  Price — Lord  Bayham — Captain 
Carter  —  Mr.,  Mrs.,  and  the  Misses  Capel — the 

Hon.  and  Rev.  Augustus  Petersham Why, 

where,  for  gracious  sake,  did  you  get  all  these  ?" 

"  They  have  been  accumulating  for  the  last 
month  at  compound  interest;  and  I  gathered 
them  out  of  a  basket  in  my  study  this  afternoon. 
A  famous  pack  for  playing,  with  a  suitable 
sprinkling  of  court  cards  and,  doubtless,  the 
usual  allowance  of  knaves  !" 

"  Have  you  returned  any  of  these  visits  ?" 

"Not  one.  I  thought  of  sending  Tippoo 
about  the  country,  as  my  representative." 

"  Absurd !" 

"  Not  at  all.  He  need  only  lie  back  in  a  cor- 
ner of  the  carriage,  wear  lavender  kid  gloves, 
and  hand  visiting  cards  through  the  window. 
If  any  one  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  face,  it  would 
only  be  thought  that  traveling  had  spoiled  my 
complexion.  You  may  depend  he  would  do  it 
capitally,  and  be  far  more  majestic  than  my- 
self" 

But  my  aunt  only  shook  her  head,  took  out  a 
pencil  and  the  back  of  an  old  letter,  and  began 
gravely  making  a  list  of  all  the  names. 

"  Have  you  any  idea,"  she  said,  presently,  "  of 
the  number  of  folks  which  these  cards  reore- 
sent  ?" 

"  Not  I !" 

"  Well— from  eighty-five  to  a  hundred." 

"Impossible !" 

"Do  you  doubt  it?  Look  here,  then.  The 
Croraptons  have  five  daughters,  so  their  tickets 
stand  for  seven  pe9ple — the  Fullers  have  two 


sons  and  one  daughter,  so  they  stand  as  five — 
the  Misses  Capel  are  four — the  Reverend " 

"  Hold,  enough  !  You  are  going  on  into  un- 
known quantities,  and  my  brain  reels  already. 
Must  I  be  civil  to  all  these  people  ?" 

"  Oh,  that's  as  you  please !" 

He  took  the  list,  read  it  through  several 
times,  and,  resting  his  head  upon  his  hand,  drop- 
ped into  a  brown  study.  By  and  by,  my  aunt 
brought  out  her  little  walnut-wood  table,  trim- 
med her  lamp,  and  sorted  the  playing  cards. 
This  done,  they  fell  to  piquet,  and  so  spent 
the  evening. 

As  for  me,  to  sit  on  a  stool  at  Hugh  Farqu- 
har's  feet  and  pore  over  the  book  with  the  sil- 
ver clasp,  was  delight  and  employment  enough. 
Here  were  sketches  indeed  !  —  some  in  water- 
colors,  some  in  pencil,  some  in  sepia.  Now 
a  page  of  mere  rough  memoranda,  faces  seen 
from  the  window,  fragments  of  capitals  and  cor- 
nices, and  the  outline  of  a  boat  with  lateen  sails 
— now  a  group  of  Tyrolean  peasants,  with  green 
hats  and  embroidered  jackets — now  a  snow-cap- 
ped mountain,  a  wild  plain  scattered  over  with 
strange  plants,  an  indigo  sky,  and  the  word 
Chimborazo  written  in  the  corner.  Next,  per- 
haps, came  a  cluster  of  old  houses  —  a  bit  of 
coast  and  sea — an  Indian  head,  studied  from  the 
life — a  curious  plant,  leaf,  flower,  and  bud,  all 
side  by  side — a  caricature  of  a  priest,  with  a  gi- 
gantic black  hat  and  a  pair  of  spindle  legs — a 
ruined  tower  and  ivied  arch ;  a  bridge ;  a  tree  ; 
a  vase  ;  and  so  on  for,  perhaps,  a  hundred  pages ! 
When  I  came  to  the  end,  I  went  back  again  to 
the  beginning  ;  and  save  now  and  then  to  steal 
a  glance  at  the  bronzed  face  which  I  so  loved 
to  look  upon,  never  lifted  my  eyes  from  the 
sketches.  For  here,  at  last,  was  the  Art  of 
which  I  had  been  d-eaming  all  my  little  life — 
Art  comprehensible,  tangible,  real  and  ideal  in 
one  !  Here  were  places  and  people,  vitality, 
action,  color,  poetry,  intention.  The  Paul  Ve- 
ronese was  too  much  for  me.  It  needed  an  art- 
education  to  pierce  the  mysteries,  and  appreci- 
ate the  beauties,  of  that  marvelous  Lombardic 
school.  Not  so  with  Hugh  Farquhar's  sketches. 
They  were  amateur's  work  ;  often  faulty,  no 
doubt,  but  full  of  character  and  effect,  and  just 
suggestive  enough  to  stimulate  the  imagination, 
and  supply  all  that  might  be  wanting  in  them 
as  works  of  art. 

At  length  the  clock  struck  ten,  and  my  aunt 
threw  down  her  hand.  Though  in  the  middle 
of  a  game,  or  at  the  most  exciting  point  of  the 
contest,  she  always  stopped  inexorably  at  the 
first  stroke  of  the  hour,  and  put  the  cards  away. 

"  You  are  pleased  with  that  book,  Barbara  ?" 
asked  Mr.  Farquhar,  speaking  to  me  for  the  first 
time  since  they  had  begun  to  play, 

"  I  never  saw  any  thing  so  beautiful,"  said  I ; 
and  my  face,  I  doubt  not,  was  more  eloquent  of 
praise  than  any  words  I  could  have  uttered. 

He  smiled  and  took  the  volume  from  me. 

"  Show  me  which  drawing  you  like  best,"  lie 
said,  turning  the  leaves  rapidly. 

I  stopped  him  at  a  sketch  of  a  ruined  fount- 
ain, with  a  background  of  misty  mountains,  and 
an  Italian  contadina  filling  her  pitcher  in  the 
foregroHnd. 

"  I  like  that  best  of  all !"  I  exclaimed. 

"  And  so  do  I,  petite.  You  have  pitched  on 
the  best  thing  in  the  book." 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


81 


Saying  which,  he  opened  hi3  penknife,  cut  the 
leaf  out,  and  placed  it  in  my  hands. 

"Mercy  alive!"  cried  my  aunt,  "you're 
never  going  to  give  the  child  that  picture  ?" 

"  Indeed  I  am  ;  and  if  it  had  been  fifty  times 
better,  she  should  have  had  it !  Carina,  I  have 
more  of  these,  and  bigger  ones,  at  home.  You 
shall  come  and  spend  a  day  with  me,  and  go 
through  them  all  —  and,  perhaps,  you  may  like 
the  Paul  Veronese  better  when  you  see  it 
again.  No  thanks,  little  one  —  I  hate  them. 
Mrs.  Sandyshaft,  I  have  made  up  my  mind  !" 

"  To  what,  pray  ?" 

"  To  the  solemn  duty  of  entertaining  my  dear 
eighty-five  unknown  acquaintances !  What  shall 
it  be  —  a  ball,  or  a  dinner  ?     Or  both  ?" 

"  Both,  by  all  means,  if  you  really  intend  it!" 

"Amen.     And  when?" 

"  How  can  /  tell  ?  You  must  put  youHiouse 
in  order." 

"  And  prepare  to  die !  My  dear  Madam, 
your  phraseology  smacks  of  '  funeral  baked 
meats,'  and  suggests  uncomfortable  results. 
Well,  I  must  turn  this  matter  over  in  my  mind, 
and  hold  a  cabinet  council  with  my  housekeep- 
er —  after  that,  nous  verrons  P' 

With  this  he  took  his  leave.  I  followed  him 
to  the  porch,  where  Satan  was  waiting,  fiery  and 
impatient.  There  was  no  moon ;  but  the  stars 
shone  keenly  through  the  frosty  night,  and  the 
stable-boy's  lantern  cast  a  bright  circle  on  the 
path. 

"Good  night,  little  friend,"  he  said,  and 
touched  my  forehead  lightly  with  his  lips. 

I  could  not  bid  him  "  good  night"  in  return  — 
my  heart  was  too  full ;  but  I  followed  him  with 
,  my  eyes  long  after  the  dark  had  swallowed  him 
up,  and  listened  for  the  last  faint  echo  of  his 
horse's  hoofs.  That  night  I  took  my  darling 
picture  up  with  me  to  bed,  and  placed  it  where 
I  might  see  it  when  I  woke.  I  was  very,  very 
happy;  and  yet  I  remember  how  I ^ cried  my- 
self to  sleep ! 


CHAPTER   X. 

THE     BALL     AT     BROOMIIILL. 

Overshadowed  by  a  huge  pear-tree  in  a 
snug  corner  of  the  orchard  behind  the  house, 
stood  a  low  wooden  building,  the  roof  whereof 
was  clustered  over  with  patches  of  brown  moss 
and  ashy  lichens.  The  padlock  on  the  doors 
was  red  with  rust,  and  the  spiders  had  woven 
their  webs  over  the  hinges.  It  looked  like  a 
place  disused;  but  it  was' my  aunt's  coach- 
house, and  contained  ray  aunt's  carriage.  Never 
brought  out,  unless  once  a  year  to  be  cleaned, 
or  on  occasions  of  solemn  ceremony,  this  vehi- 
cle reposed  in  dust  and  dignity,  like  Lord  Nel- 
son's funeral  car  in  the  vaults  at  St.  Paul's,  and 
led,  on  the  whole,  an  easy  life  of  it.  The  first 
time  that  I  ever  had  the  honor  of  being  jolted 
in  it,  was  on  the  day  of  Hugh  Farquhar's  great 
dinner  and  evening  party,  about  five  weeks 
after  the  events  last  related. 

I  say  jolted,  and  I  say  it  advisedly  ;  for  surely 
a  more  obstinate  and  springless  piece  of  furni- 
ture never  went  upon  wheels.  When  set  in 
motion  it  uttered  despairing  creaks ;  going 
down-hill  it  staggered  from  side  to  side,  like  a 
drunken  giant ;  and  we  never  turned  a  corner 


but  it  threatened  to  pitch  over.  Notwithstand- 
ing these  little  eccentricities,  it  was  the  object  of 
my  special  veneration  ;  and  Mrs.  Inchbald's  hero 
never  saluted  the  wig  of  his  uncle  the  judge, 
nor  Friday  the  gun  of  Robinson  Crusoe,  more 
reverently  than  I  did  homage  to  this  antiquated 
"  leathern  conveniency."  Our  difficulties  on 
the  present  occasion  were  increased  tenfold  by 
the  condition  of  the  roads ;  for  there  had  been 
snow  the  night  before,  and  a  frost  toward 
morning. 

"  Bab,"  said  my  aunt,  "  I  never  thought  I 
should  have  lived  to  do  this," 

My  aunt  was  very  grand  this  evening,  and 
wore  her  black  brocaded  silk  dress,  her  black 
and  gold  turban,  and  the  suite  of  oriental 
amethysts  which  were  given  to  her  by  her 
husband  on  her  wedding-day. 

"  To  do  what,  aunt?"  I  asked,  clinging  to  a 
carriage-strap ;  for  we  were  just  going  over  a 
piece  of  road  where  the  snow  had  drifted  some- 
what deeply,  and  our  conveyance  was  laboring 
onward,  like  a  lighter  in  a  gale. 

"Why,  to  dine  at  Broomhill,  to  be  sure'. 
Have  you  not  often  and  often  heard  me  say 
that  I  never  exchanged  a  civility  with  the  Far- 
quhars  in  my  life,  or  crossed  the  threshold  of  a 
Farquhar's  door  ?  And  yet  here  I  am,  at  my 
time  of  life,  actually  going  to  Broomhill  to 
dinner !" 

"But  then  you  like  this  Mr.  Farquhar,"  I 
suggested,  "  and " 

"Don't  say  I  like  him,  Bab.  I  tolerate  him. 
He's  an  amusing  madman  with  a  remnant  of 
brains ;  and  I  tolerate  him.  That's  all,  and  a 
good  d6al,  too;  for  he's  the  first  of  his  name 
that  I  ever  endured,  living  or  dead !  So !  I 
never  drove  through  these  gates  before,  old  as  I 
am.     Bab,  sit  still." 

But  I  was  all  excitement,  and  could  not  have 
sat  still  for  the  world.  We  had  now  entered  the 
park,  and  yonder,  framed  in  by  the  gleaming 
snow  and  sable  sky,  stood  the  house,  lighted 
from  basement  to  attic,  like  a  huge  beacon  of 
welcome.  The  avenue  had  all  been  cleared  ; 
but  the  great  old  oaks  stretched  their  snow-laden 
arms  overhead,  and  looked,  by  the  ghostly  light 
of  our  carriage-lamps,  like  gigantic  branches  of 
white  coral.  There  was  another  vehicle  some 
little  way  in  advance  of  us  ;  and  when  we  came 
to  within  a  few  feet  of  the  arched  gateway,  we 
found  ourselves  at  the  end  of  a  line  of  carriages, 
each  advancing  a  few  steps  at  a  time,  and  set- 
tin<2^  down  its  occupants  one  by  one.  How  my 
heart  beat  when  it  came  to  be  our  turn  at  last, 
and  we  drew  up  before  the  bright  perspective  of 
the  lighted  hall ! 

A  powdered  footman  stood  just  within  the 
entrance — a  second  took  charge  of  our  cloaks — 
a  third  announced  us  at  the  drawing-room  door. 
'  I  had  never  been  to  a  party  in  my  life  before, 
and  as  we  passed  into  the  great  room  all  ablaze 
with  chandeliers  and  mirrors,  I  trembled  and 
hung  back.  There  were  some  twenty  people  or 
so,  scattered  about  on  sofas,  or  gathered  round 
a  table  laden  with  engravings.  From  this  group 
a  gentleman  disengaged  himself  at  the  sound  of 
my  aunt's  name,  and  came  forward  to  meet  us. 
I  scarcely  knew  him  at  first,  in  his  close  black 
suit  and  white  cravat — he  looked  so  unlike  the 
fur-coated,  careless  Hugh  Farquhar  of  every  day ! 
He  bowed  profoundly — so  profoundly  that  I,  in 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


my  ignorance  was  quite  astonished — and  led 
my  aunt  to  an  arm-chair  by  the  fire. 

"  I  look  upon  this  as  a  high  compliment, 
Mrs.  Sandyshaft,"  said  he,  "  and  rejoice  to  bid 
you  welcome,  for  the  first  time,  to  my  home." 

The  formality  of  this  address,  the  stately 
politeness  with  which  my  aunt  received  it,  and, 
above  all  the  sudden  hush  of  curiosity  that 
seemed  to  fall  upon  the  assembled  guests, 
struck  me  as  something  very  strange.  Not  till 
years  after,  when  I  was  old  enough  in  the 
world's  usages  to  interpret  the  enigma,  did  I 
understand  why  Hugh  Farquhar  paid  her  such 
public  courtesy  that  evenmg,  and  how  her 
presence  there  stood  for  a  recognition  of  friend- 
ship, and  the  healing  of  old  feuds. 

Amid  the  brief  silence  that  followed,  more 
visitors  arrived ;  -  and  then  the  hum  of  talk  began 
afresh.  One  after  another,  all  the  persons  pres- 
ent came  up  and  paid  their  compliments  to  my 
aunt,  and,  with  very  few  exceptions,  every  face 
was  strange  to  me.  Most  of  them  asked  her 
who  I  was ;  some  shook  hands  with  me,  and 
hoped  I  was  a  good  little  girl ;  and  one  old 
gentleman  with  white  hair,  looked  at  me  atten- 
tively when  he  heard  my  name,  and  said  that  I 
was  like  my  mother. 

Presently  the  dinner  was  announced.  Mr. 
Farquhar  gave  his  arm  to  my  aunt ;  the  rest 
followed,  two  and  two ;  and  I  found  myself 
conveyed  with  the  stream,  and  seated  beside 
that  same  white-haired  old  gentleman,  near  the 
bottom  of  a  very  long  table  covered  with  glass 
and  silver,  glittering  candelabra,  and  vases  of 
delicious  flowers  such  as  I  had  never  seen  in 
winter-time  before. 

This  meal  was  a  stately  solemnization,  and, 
like  that  of  matrimony,  ended  (so  far  as  I  was 
concerned)  in  amazement.  Soup,  fish,  flesh, 
fowl,  game,  sauces,  and  sweets,  succeeded  each 
other  in  bewildering  variety,  and  promised  never 
to  come  to  an  end.  Being  no  great  eater  at  any 
time,  and,  like  most  children,  averse  to  rich  and 
highly  flavored  dishes,  I  amused  myself  by 
listening  to  the  conversation  that  was  going  on 
around  me,  and  observing  every  thing  and  every 
body  in  the  room.  There  was  Hugh  Farquhar 
at  the  head  of  the  table,  with  my  aunt  at  his 
right  hand  and  Tippoo  standing  stone-still  be- 
hind his  chair.  He  looked,  I  fancied,  somewhat 
pale,  and,  though  studiously  courteous,  was  both 
grave  and  silent.  Perhaps,  having  been  so  long 
a  dweller  in  tents,  he  found  these  formalities 
irksome.  Perhaps  he  felt  himself  a  stranger  in 
his  own  house  and  among  his  own  guests,  living 
another  life,  thinking  other  thoughts,  and  con- 
versant with  other  topics  than  theirs.  At  the 
foot  of  the  table  where  sat  Sir  John  Crompton 
(a  stout,  jovial,  fox-hunting,  country  baronet,  in 
a  blue  coat  with  brass  buttons  and  an  expansive 
white  waistcoat)  there  was  ten  times  more  en- 
joyment. Here  the  wine  circulated  more  freely 
and  the  talk  went  briskly  on,  and  all  were 
neighbors  and  intimates.  Captain  Carter's  blood 
mare  and  the  marriage  of  Miss  Rowland,  the 
quality  of  Mr.  Farquhar' s  Moselle,  and  that  sad 
affair  near  Ipswich  between  the  rural  police  and 
the  Tenth  Lancers,  formed  the  staple  subjects  of 
their  conversation.  Meanwhile  the  ladies  listened 
and  chimed'in ;  and  the  younger  people  spoke 
low,  and  flirted ;  and  the  fat  gentleman  with 
the  bald  head  took  two  helpings  of  every  thing ; 


and  the  lady  in  the  amber  satin  dress  had  the 
gravy  spilt  in  her  lap,  and  was  so  cross  that  she 
scarcely  knew  how  to  behave  herself ;  and  the 
clergyman  at  the  opposite  corner  talked  of 
hunting  and  shooting,  and  drank  more  wine 
than  any  other  gentleman  at  the  table.  All  this 
I  noticed,  and  much  more  beside.  Nothing 
escaped  me — not  even  the  new  liveries  on  the 
footmen,  or  the  new  furniture  that  decorated 
the  room,  or  the  new  paper  on  the  walls — least 
of  all  the  lovely  Poussin  that  hung  just  opposite 
my  seat,  fresh  as  if  newly  dipped  in  the  dews  of 
"  incense-breathing  morn,"  and  opening  a  vista 
into  Arcadia.  Having  feasted  my  eyes  on  this 
till  they  grew  dim,  and  having  listened  with 
delight  to  the  pale-faced  young  man  who  made 
puns,  and  having  asked  endless  questions  of 
the  kind  old  gentleman  beside  whom  I  had  the 
good  luck  to  be  seated,  I  came  at  last  to  the  end 
of  my  resources,  and  longed  for  liberty  again. 
I  looked  at  my  aunt,  and  wondered  whether  she 
also  was  not  tired  of  the  dinner  by  this  time  ; 
but  she  was  talking  to  an  elderly  gentleman  in 
glasses,  and  evidently  not  only  enjoying  her 
argument,  but  triumphantly  getting  the  best  of 
it.  I  looked  all  round  the  table,  and  saw  none 
but  smiling,  flushed,  and  occupied  faces.  To 
eat,  drink,  and  be  merry  was  the  order  of  the 
hour  ;  and,  save  in  the  countenance  of  the  giver 
of  the  feast,  I  could  nowhere  read  any  lack  of 
entertainment.  He  talked,  it  is  true,  but  ab- 
stractedly. Once  he  looked  up  and  found  my 
eyes  upon  him,  and  so  smiled,  put  his  glass  to 
his  lips  and  nodded  to  me  gayly  ;  but  that  was 
the  only  moment  when  he  seemed  genuinely 
himself.  And  thus  the  dreary  order  of  things 
went  on  and  on ;  and  what  with  the  buzz  and 
hum  of  conversation,  the  clatter  of  knives  and  ' 
glasses,  the  monotonous  gliding  to  and  fro  of 
attentive  servants,  and  the  amalgamation  of 
savory  scents  which  rose  like  "  a  steam  of  rich 
distilled  perfumes"  and  hung  over  our  heads  as 
an  oppressive  canopy,  I  became  quite  weary  and 
confused,  and  well-nigh  dropped  asleep. 

At  last  Sir  John  Crompton  proposed  the  health 
of  the  "  ladies  " — for  toasts  were  not  yet  gone 
out  of  fashion — and  after  that  my  aunt  and  Lady 
Crompton  arose  from  table,  and  we  all  went  out 
in  a  rustling  procession  of  silks  and  satins,  and 
left  the  gentlemen  to  their  claret.  By  this  time 
it  was  nearly  nine  o'clock,  and  we  could  hear 
the  musicians  in  the  long  gallery  tuning  their 
instruments  and  making  ready  for  the  ball  that 
was  to  follow.  It  was  now  duller  than  ever. 
Some  of  the  elder  ladies  gathered  into  little 
knots,  and  chatted  of  their  families,  and  their 
friends.  The  younger  lounged  abCut,  and 
yawned  over  the  engravings,  or  tried  the  tone  of 
the  piano.  My  aunt  sat  bolt  upright  in  a  high- 
backed  chair,  and  had  forty  inflexible  winks. 
I  stole  over  to  a  distant  window,  and  looked  out 
at  the  snow  which  was  falling  fast  again.  Every 
now  and  then,  strangely  discordant  with  the 
white  sepulchral  calm  of  the  scene  without, 
rose  the  peals  of  laughter,  and  the  "  three-times 
three,"  of  the  revelers  in  the  dining-room  be- 
low. By  and  by,  a  carriage  with  gleaming  lamps 
rose  noiselessly  past  the  window  ;  and  then 
another,  and  another,  till  the  room  began  to  fill 
with  fresh  arrivals,  and  the  gentlemen  came  up- 
stairs. Then  coffee  was  handed  round ;  and 
card-tables  were  opened  for  those  who  chose  to 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


83 


play ;  and  the  rest  dropped  away  by  twos  and 
twos,  at  the  summons  of  the  band-music,  which 
now  rang  merrily  out  across  the  broad  vestibule, 
and  along  the  echoing  staircases.  My  aunt  sat 
down  to  loo,  and  my  white-haired  friend  to 
whist.  Nobody  offered  to  take  me  into  the  ball- 
room, and  no  one  spoke  to  me ;  so  I  kept  by 
the  window  and  listened  longingly,  and  felt 
almost  as  lonely  as  I  used  to  feel  in  my  self- 
chosen  solitude  up  in  the  old  garret  of  my  Lon- 
don home.  A  long,  long  time  went  by  thus, 
and  still  more  guests  kept  coming  —  chiefly 
young  people,  radiant  in  delicate  gauzes  and 
flowers,  and  full  of  life  and  gayety.  Some  of  the 
girls  were  beautiful,  and  three  or  four  of  the 
gentlemen  wore  military  uniforms.  How  I 
longed  to  see  them  dancing,  and  what  a  glitter- 
ing scene  I  fancied  that  ball-room  must  be  ! 
At  length  the  anguish  of  disappointment  and 
neglect  quite  overcame  my  fortitude,'^and  I 
leaned  my  forehead  up  against  the  window,  and 
let  my  tears  flow  silently. 

"What,  Barbara  here,  and  all  alone!"  said 
Hugh  Farquhar's  voice.  *'  Why  are  you  not  in 
the  ball-room,  mignonne  .^" 

Ashamed  to  be  found  weeping,  I  pressed  my 
face  closer  to  the  glass,  and  made  no  answer. 
He  laid  his  hand  upon  my  shoulder,  and  bent 
down  till  I  felt  his  breath  upon  my  neck. 

"Something  is  the  matter,  carina^''''  he  said 
gently.  "  Turn  round  and  look  at  me,  and  tell 
me  what  it  is  !" 

I  could  not  bear  his  touch,  or  the  tenderness 
of  his  voice ;  but  trembled  all  at  once  from  head 
to  foot,  and  sobbed  openly.  In  another  instant 
he  had  taken  a  chair  beside  mine,  had  drawn 
me  to  his  knee,  folded  his  arms  about  me,  and 
kissed  me  twenty  times. 

"  Hush,  hush,  Barbara  mia  .'"  he  murmured 
soothingly — "hush,  for  my  sake,  my  bright- 
eyed  Princess !  I  see  how  it  is — she  was  for- 
gotten— left  all  alone  here  in  this  dull  room,  and 
so  grew  sad  and  wanted  company.  Hush,  no 
more  sobs,  petite  !  You  shall  come  with  me  to 
the  housekeeper's  parlor,  and  she  shall  wash 
away  those  tears  from  your  cheeks,  and  then  we 
will  go  into  the  ball-room  together  and  have  a 
dance!" 

"  Dance  !"  I  repeated  in  the  midst  of  my 
sorrow.     "  Shall  /dance  ?" 

"  To  be  sure  you  shall,  and  I  will  be  your 
partner  !  Eccola !  I  thought  the  sunshine 
would  soon  come  back  again  !" 

With  this  he  tooJ^  me  out  of  the  drawing- 
room,  and  along  a  passage,  and  into  a  snug  little 
apartment  where  there  was  an  old  lady  in  black 
silk  filling  out  scores  of  cups  of  tea  and  coffee 
to  send  up  to  the  visitors.  At  a  word  from  Mr. 
Farquhar,  this  excellent  old  lady  carried  me  off" 
into  an  inner  chamber,  and  there  washed  my 
face,  brushed  hay  hair,  tied  my  sash  afresh,  and 
made  me  quite  smart  and  presentable.  Then  he 
once  more  took  my  hand,  and  we  went  into  the 
ball-room  together. 

The  ball-room  was  the  portrait-gallery  ;  but 
the  portrait-gallery  transformed— transfigured — 
changed  to  fairy-land.  It  looked  like  a  huge 
bower.  The  old  portraits  smiled  out  from  en- 
vironments of  myrtle  and  holly  —  the  walls, 
chandeliers,  and  music-gallery  were  festooned 
with   devices  of    evergreens,   crysanthemums, 


and  winter  heaths — there  were  colored  lamps 
and  Chinese  lanterns  nestling  in  the  leaves  and 
suspended  along  every  pillar  and  cornice — the 
orchestra  was  hung  with  flags  of  many  nations ; 
and  at  the  upper  end  of  the  room,  filling  with 
its  single  dignity  nearly  all  the  space  of  wall, 
hung  the  Paul  Veronese.  Add  to  all  this  a 
joyous  crowd  floating  in  couples  through  the 
mazy  circles  of  that  dreamy  waltz  which  has 
disappeared  of  late  years  with  all  the  poetry  of 
motion ;  superadd  the  intoxicating  music  of  a 
military  band ;  and  then  conceive  the  breathless 
delight  with  which  I  paused  at  the  threshold, 
hand  in  hand  with  the  master  of  Broomhill, 
and  gazed  on  the  scene  before  me  ! 

We  had  not  been  there  an  instant  when  a 
couple  of  waltzers  stoppt^d  near  us  to  rest. 

"Fie,  Mr.  Farquhar!"  said  the  lady,  "you 
engaged  me  for  this  dance,  and,  like  a  recreant 
knight,  failed  to  claim  me  when  it  began.  What 
apology  have  you  to  offer  ?" 

"  One  so  insufficient  that  I  shall  throw  myself 
on  your  mercy.  Lady  Flora,  and  not  even  name 
it,"  replied  my  companion.  "My  only  con- 
solation is  in  seeing  that  you  have  found  a 
partner  better  worth  your  acceptance." 

The  lady  laughed  and  shook  her  head — she  was 
very  lovely  ;  a  dark  beauty,  rich  complexioned 
and  haughty,  like  Tennyson's  Cleopatra. 

"  That  mock  humility  shall  not  serve  you !" 
said  she.     "  I  mean  to  be  implacable." 

"  Nay,  then,  I  have  indeed  no  resource  left 
but  exile  or  suicide !  Choose  for  me,  since  you 
condemn  me — shall  it  be  arsenic  or  Algeria, 
Patagonia  or  pistols  ?" 

"Neither.  You  shall  expiate  your  sins  on 
the  spot,  by  finishing  the  waltz  with  me." 

Hugh  Farquhar  smiled,  bowed  low,  and  en- 
circled her  waist  with  his  arm. 

"  For  so  fair  a  Purgatory  who  would  not  risk 
perdition  ?"  said  he,  gallantly. 

She  laughed  again,  excused  herself  to  her  late 
partner  with  a  careless  nod,  rested  one  tiny  hand 
and  an  arm  sparkling  with  jewels,  on  Mr.  Far- 
quhar's shoulder,  and  so  they  floated  away  to- 
gether, and  were  lost  in  the  maze  of  waltzers. 
I  sighed,  and  followed  them  with  my  eyes.  The 
gentleman  with  whom  Lady  Flora  had  been 
dancing,  saw  that  wistful  glance,  and  took  pity 
on  me. 

"  Too  bad  to  leave  you  standing  here  alone, 
little  lady!"  said  he  with  some  affectation,  but 
much  Teal  kindness.  "Where  would  you  like 
to  sit  ?    Near  the  music  ?" 

"  Up  yonder,  by  the  Paul  Veronese,"  I  re- 
plied eagerly. 

"Don't  know  him,"  said  my  new  friend  with 
a  yawn ;  "  but  if  he's  there  we  can  find  him. 
What's  his  name  ?" 

I  could  not  have  kept  from  laughing  to  save 
my  life. 

He  stared  and  looked  down  upon  me,  and 
twirled  his  mustachios  with  his  thumb  and  fore- 
finger. 

"  The  Paul  Veronese — the  big  picture,"  I  ex- 
pldned.  "  I  should  like  to  ait  where  I  could  see 
it." 

"Oh,  the  six-thousand  pounder!"  said  he. 
"Like  to. sit  and  look  at  ihat^  eh?  What  an 
original  idea !     Come  along !" 

Saying  which,  he  took  my  hand,  piloted  me 


34 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


in  and  out  among  the  dancers,  and  placed  me  in 
a  vacant  chair  by  a  window,  at  the  upper  end  of 
the  room. 

"  Will  that  do?"  he  asked.     "  Can  you  see  it 
well  ?    Are  you  comfortable  ?" 
"  Oh,  yes,  thank  you !" 
"  All  right !"  said  he ;  nodded  languidly,  and 
sauntered  away. 

Left  to  myself  now,  I  watched  the  waltzers 
and  looked  out  for  the  couple  in  which  I  was 
most  interested.  They  swept  past  me  presently, 
circling  amid  a  number  of  others,  and  were  gone 
almost  before  I  had  time  to  recognize  them. 
Then  the  music  ceased ;  the  dancers  fell  into 
promenading  order ;  and  I  waited  and  watched 
till  they  should  again  pass  by.  It  was  not  long 
before  the  stream  brought  them  round  a  second 
\  time.  They  were  talking,  and  Hugh  was  bend- 
*  ing  down  and  looking  in  heif  face  with  such  an 
expression  on  his  own  as  I  had  never  seen  there 
before.  ** 

"I  have  had  no  motive  to  keep  me  here,"  I 
heard  him  say,  "and  without  ties  all  men  are 
Bohemians.     If,  however " 

They  went  on,  and  I  caught  no  more.  Alas ! 
I  had  heard  enough,  and,  child  as  I  was,  that 
unfinished  phrase  woke  me  to  a  sudden  passion 
of  jealousy.  I  thought  of  his  speaking  eyes  and 
the  tender  earnestness  of  his  voice — I  remem- 
bered the  flushed  smile  with  which  she  listened 
and  looked  down — I  compared  her  with  the  rest, 
and  saw  that  she  was  the  loveliest  in  the  room  ! 
Oh  1  a  child's  jealousy  is  as  poignant,  after  its 
kind,  as  man's,  or  woman's  —  perhaps  more 
poignant,  because  more  unreasoning ! 

They  came  round  a  third  time,  and  paused 
before  the  Paul  Veronese.  I  was  just  near 
enough  to  hear,  and  listened  eagerly. 

"It  is  well  placed,"  said  she,  "but  not  well 
hung.  The  light  falls  on  it  disadvantageously. 
Why  not  let  it  lean  more  forward  ?  The  effect 
would  be  infinitely  better." 

"I  think  so,  too,"  replied  Mr.  Farquhar. 
"  Would  you  like  to  see  it  done  at  once  ?  Noth- 
ing could  be  easier." 

"I  shall  be  delighted." 

"To  delight  you,  Lady  Flora,"  said  he,  "I 
would  move  every  picture  in  the  house." 

With  this  he  stepped  aside,  and  spoke  to  a 
servant  who  was  in  waiting.  The  man  left  the 
room,  and  presently  returned,  bearing  a  set  of 
library  steps  and  followed  by  Tippoo.  Some 
few  of  the  guests  smiled  and  thought  it  odd; 
but  the  greater  number  took  no  notice,  and 
kept  on  dancing  merrily. 

"Now  I  really  hope  this  is  not  very  trouble- 
some— or  very  difficult,"  said  Lady  Flora,  stand- 
ing by  and  toying  with  her  fan. 

"  Did  I  not  say  before  that  nothing  could  be 
easier?"  returned  Hugh,  "They  have  but  to 
let  the  cords  out  longer,  and  the  thing  is  done. 
Every  inch  added  to  the  length  of  the  cord,  is 
an  inch  added  to  the  incline  of  the  picture. 
Gently,  Tippoo  —  gently.  Are  those  staples 
•  safe?" 

"If  it  were  to  fall  and  get  injured,  I  should 
never  forgive  myself,"  said  Lady  Flora. 

"Good  Heavens!  I  never  thought  of  that," 
ejaculated  he.  "  Stand  aside  —  it  would  kill 
you !" 

She  laughed  carelessly,  and  stepped  back. 


"I  was  not  thinking  of  myself,"  said  she. 
"But  would  it  not  be  well  to  support  it  on  this 
side  ?" 

He  nodded,  was  advancing  to  lend  his  aid, 
had  his  hand  uplifted,  when  a  shrill,  inarticulate 
cry  broke  from  the  lips  of  the  Hindoo,  and  the 
whole  mass  surged  forward,  like  a  faUing  house  ! 

A  universal  shriek  of  horror — a  sudden  rush 
of  feet — the  closing  up  of  an  eager  crowd  and  a 
hubbub  of  frightened  voices,  is  all  that  I  re- 
member for  many  moments. 

"  Dr.  Topham  !"  cried  some  one.  "Where 
is  Doctor  Topham  ?" 

He  was  in  the  card-room.  Before  the  words 
were  well  nigh  spoken,  some  half-dozen  gentle- 
men had  flown  to  fetch  him,  and  he,  pale  but 
self-possessed,  came  running  in.  They  opened  to 
let  him  pass,  and  closed  after  him  directly,  like 
parted  water.  Sick,  trembling,  standing  on  my 
chair,  and  yet  scarce  able  to  support  myself, 
I  leaned  against  the  wall,  and  watched  the 
crowd.  I  could  see  nothing  of  what  was  being 
done — hear  nothing,  when  all  were  speaking — 
guess  nothing,  or  dare  to  guess  nothing,  of  what 
might  have  happened ! 

But  I  was  not  long  kept  in  suspense.  Pres- 
ently the  crowd  swayed  back  and  fell  apart,  and 
from  the  midst  of  it  issued — oh.  Heaven! — the 
inanimate  body  of  Hugh  Farquhar,  pallid  and 
blood-stained,  and  borne  by  two  of  his  servants  ! 

They  carried  him  out,  slowly  and  carefully, 
with  Dr.  Topham  walking  beside  them.  Then 
a  dead  silence  fell  on  all  the  room — faces,  lights, 
walls  and  ceiling  seemed  to  rock  to  and  fro  be- 
fore my  eyes  —  a  confused  sound,  as  of  many 
waters,  came  rushing  to  my  ears,  and  I  fell  with- 
out the  power  to  save  myself. 

I  was  lying  in  the  same  spot,  partly  hidden 
by  the  window-curtains,  when  I  recovered  con- 
sciousness. No  one  had  heard  me  fall,  and  in  the 
general  trouble  no  one  had  noticed  me.  Feel- 
ing very  cold  and  faint,  I  sat  up,  rested  my 
heavy  head  against  the  wall,  and  recalled  the 
accident  that  had  just  happened.  Was  he  dead  ? 
Or  dying  ?  Or  only  badly  hurt  ?  I  dreaded  to 
ask,  and  yet  I  felt  that  I  must  know ;  so  I  got, 
somehow,  to  my  feet,  and  made  my  way  over 
to  a  couple  of  gentlemen  who  were  talking  soft- 
ly together  in  the  embrasure  of  the  nearest 
window.  The  elder  of  the  two  looked  kind  and 
serious.  I  plucked  him  by  the  sleeve  to  attract 
his  attention, 

*'  "  Oh,  sir,  if  you  please,"  I  faltered  imploring- 
ly, "  is — is  he  dead  ?" 

He  looked  at  my  very  gravely,  and  shook  his 
head, 

"  No,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "  Mr,  Farquhar  is  not 
dead  ;  but " 

"But  what  ?"  I  implied  rather  than  said,  for 
my  lips  moved,  though  my  voice  died  away, 

"  But  we  fear  he  is  seriously  injured.  The 
picture  knocked  him  down,  and  the  frame  came 
against  the  side  of  his  head — in  which  case " 

"  In  which  case  there  is  probably  a  fracture  ; 
and  brain-fever,  or  something  worse,  may  ensue," 
said  the  other  gentleman,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 
"  Tush  !  we  are  here  to-day,  my  dear  fellow,  and 
gone  to-morrow — gone  to-morrow  !  What  a  vile 
night  for  one's  horses  !  I  believe  'tis  snowing 
again !" 

With  this  they  looked  out  of  the  window,  and 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


85 


I,  sick  at  heart  and  trembling  still  from  head  to 
foot,  crept  away  into  a  far  corner  and  sat  down 
in  dumb  despair. 

One  by  one,  the  groups  of  whispering  guests 
broke  up  and  dispersed.  One  by  one,  the  car- 
riages drove  noiselessly  away  through  the  falling 
snow.  The  musicians  lingered  awhile ;  then 
gathered  up  their  music  and  their  instruments, 
and  departed  likewise.  At  length  only  three  or 
four  stragglers  remained,  and  when  these  were 
gone,  a  silence  and  solitude  as  of  death  fell  upon 
the  place. 

Crouching  all  alone  upon  a  form,*I  closed  my 
eyes  on  the  empty  room  and  wondered  wearily 
where  ray  aunt  could  be.  Now  and  then  I  heard 
the  shutting  of  a  distant  door,  and  so  held  my 
breath  and  listened  eagerly.  Once  I  saw  a  serv- 
ant flit  through  the  hall ;  but  he  was  gone  in  an 
instant,  and  never  even  glanced  in  to  see  wjiether 
any  guest  remained.  Then  the  wax-lights  in  the 
sconces  guttered  and  flickered,  and  went  out 
here  and  there  amid  the  fading  flowers  ;  and  by 
and  by,  what  with  cold,  fatigue,  and  weariness 
of  spirit,  I  was  fain  to  stretch  myself  along  the 
comfortless  form,  pillow  my  flushed  cheek  on 
my  arm,  and  fall  asleep. 

It  was  on  uneasy  slumber,  and  pervaded  by  a 
feverish  sense  of  trouble.  Was  it  a  dream  ? — 
or  did  I  wake  once  for  a  moment,  to  find  myself 
being  carried  up  a  dimly  lighted  staircase,  with 
Tippoo's  olive  face  bent  close  to  mine  ? 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE  CRISIS. 
"  Grief  makes  one  hour  ten."— Shakspeare. 

Hugh  Farqdhar  was  indeed  very  ill,  and  it 
continued  doubtful  for  many  days  whether  he 
would  live  or  die.  To  the  torpid  insensibility 
which  weighed  upon  him  for  long  hours  after 
his  fall,  succeeded  a  burning  fever  accompanied 
by  delirium.  In  this  state  he  remained,  with 
intervals  of  restless  sleep  or  outworn  exhaustion, 
for  nearly  a  fortnight,  during  which  time  Dr. 
Topham  staid  in  permanent  attendance  at  Broom- 
hill,  and  my  aunt  went  daily.  Now  that  the 
time  of  trial  was  come,  she  proved,  indeed, 
that  if  she  could  be  a  good  hater,  she  could  also 
be  a  good  friend  and  true.  On  the  third  day,  a 
famous  physician  came  down  from  London — a 
.very  stout  and  pompous  gentleman,  who  saw  the 
patient  for  about  ten  miimtes  ;  offered  no  par- 
ticular opinion  one  way  or  the  other ;  dined  enor- 
mously ;  drank  two  bottles  of  old  port ;  slept  in 
the  best  bedroom  ;  and  went  off  next  morning 
by  the  early  coach,  with  a  fee  of  fifty  guineas  in 
his  pocket  and  an  air  of  the  utmost  condescen- 
sion and  unconcern. 

Oh,  the  weary  days,  how  slowly  they  lagged 
by  !  From  the  morning  after  the  Ball,  when  I 
awoke  with  that  strange  sense  of  unexplained 
trouble  at  my  heart,  up  to  the  time  when  Hugh 
Farquhar's  illness  came  to  a  decided  issue, 
seemed  like  the  interval,  not  of  days,  but  of 
months.  My  recollection  of  it  is  confused,  like 
that  of  a  dream,  or  chain  of  dreams  dreamt  long 
ago.  Having  slept  at  Broomhill  on  the  night  of 
the  accident,  I  was  sent  home  the  next  morn- 
ing to  Stoneycroft  Hall,  and  there  left  alone  till 
evening,   when  my    aunt  came    home.      The 


sight  of  my  white  face  and  swollen  eyelids,  and 
the  housemaid's  story  of  how  I  had  lain  moan- 
ing on  the  rug  before  the  fire,  eating  nothing  all 
the  day  and  refusing  to  be  comforted,  opened 
Mrs.  Sandyshaft's  eyes  to  the  danger  of  leaving 
me  alone.  She  decided,  therefore,  to  take  me 
with  her  for  the  future  ;  and  by  ten  o'clock  the 
next  morning,  we  were  both  at  Broomhill,  There 
we  remained  till  the  carriage  came  for  us  at 
four ;  and  so  on  for  every  succeeding  day  while 
he  lay  ill. 

Not  being  allowed  to  enter  his  room,  I  passed 
away  the  hours  as  best  I  could.  To  linger  aim- 
lessly about  the  gardens,  unconscious  of  the  cold 
— to  wander  through  the  wintry  park,  watching 
the  silent  fading  of  the  snow  and  wondering 
vaguely  how  it  would  be  with  him  when  all  was 
melted  and  gone — to  stand  by  the  half-hour  to- 
gether looking  up  to  the  windows  of  his  sick- 
room, and  trembling  if  a  hand  but  stirred  the 
blind — to  steal  up  when  none  were  looking,  and 
crouch  down  silently  upon  the  mat  at  his  cham- 
ber-door, listening  and  alert,  like  a  faithful  dog 
— to  make  my  way  fearlessly  albng  the  upper 
floors  where  the  sheeted  furniture  stood  ghost- 
like in  dark  corners,  and  so  penetrate  to  the  lit- 
tle room  in  the  ivied  tower  where  the  books 
that  he  had  last  been  reading  were  yet  left  piled 
upon  the  table,  and  his  pipe  lay  beside  his  vacant 
chair,  curled  round  like  a  green  and  golden 
snake  laid  asleep  by  the  Charmer — to  hope,  till 
hope  itself  became  agony — to  despair,  till  despair 
became  intolerable  and  tears  brought  something 
like  relief— to  count  the  ticking  of  the  great 
clock  on  the  stairs,  or  -the  drops  that  fell  from 
the  thawing  snow  in  the  fantastic  gargoyles  by 
the  casement — to  lie  in  wait  for  those  who  came 
out  from  his  chamber,  and  entreat  for  tidings, 
though  all  tidings  were  but  a  reiteration  of  the 
same  doubts  and  fears — to  wake  every  morning, 
and  fall  asleep  every  night,  sad  and  sick  at 
heart — this  was  my  life,  and  this  was  how  I  loved 
him! 

Those  who  had  been  his  guests  that  fatal  night 
sent  frequently  at  this  time  to  inquire  for  him, 
and  Lady  Bayham  and  Lady  Flora  came  more 
frequently  than  any.  They  passed  me  once  as  I 
was  wandering  along  the  leafless  avenue,  and  I 
turned  aside  at  the  sight  of  that  beautiful  dark 
face,  and  shrank  from  looking  on  it.  Was  she 
not  the  cause  of  all  this  evil,  and  had  not  I,  ac- 
cording to  my  childish  logic,  the  right  to  bate 
her? 

At  length  there  came  a  day — I  think  it  was 
the  twelfth  or  thirteenth — when  Hugh,  having 
been  worse  than  ever  all  the  previous  night,  fell 
into  a  deep  sleep  that  endured  for  hours.  Dr. 
Topham  said  the  crisis  was  come,  and  we  all 
knew  that  he  would  waken  by  and  by  to  life  or 
death.  The  long  morning  and  the  brief  after- 
noon passed  thus.  Then  the  early  dusk  came 
on ;  and  still  my  aunt  sat  motionless  beside  his 
bed,  and  still  the  servants  crept  noiselessly 
about  with  slippered  feet,  and  voices  bated  to 
a  whisper.  The  carriage  came  for  us  at  four,  as 
usual,  and  went  back  empty.  Visitors  were 
stopped  at  the  courtyard-gate,  and  not  suffered 
to  approach.  The  striking  weight  was  taken  off 
the  great  clock  on  the  stairs.  It  might,  indeed, 
have  been  an  enchanted  palace  now,  and  all  the 
living  creatures  in  it  phantoms ! 

The  dusk  thickened  and  became  dark,  and 


36 


BARBARA'S   HISTORY. 


there  was  yet  no  change.  Unable  to  watch 
there  longer  without  rest  or  refreshment,  my 
aunt  stole  cautiously  away,  and  the  nurse  and 
doctor  remained  with  the  sleeper.  She  came 
down  to  the  housekeeper's  parlor  and  placed 
herself  silently  at  table.  She  looked  paler  and 
sterner  than  usual,  and  took  no  notice  of  my 
presence.  Something  in  her  face  awed  me,  and 
I  said  nothing.  She  poured  out  a  glass  of  wine 
and  drank  it,  with  her  elbow  resting  on  the  table. 
Then  she  helped  herself  to  meat.  As  she  did 
this,  I  saw  that  her  hands  trembled.  Presently 
she  pushed  the  plate  away,  and  drew  her  chair 
to  the  fire. 

"I  can't  do  it,  Bab,"  said  she.  "  I  can't  do 
it.    The  food  seems  to  choke  me." 

I  crept  over  to  her  feet,  and  rested  my  head 
against  her  knees.  The  sympathy  of  a  mutual 
grief  was  between  us,  and  not  another  word  was 
spoken.  She  laid  her  hand  upon  my  hair,  and 
left  it  there.  By  and  by  the  hand  slipped  off", 
and  I  knew  by  her  breathing  that  she  slept. 
Some  time  went  by  thus — perhaps  three  quarters 
of  an  hour  —  duriag  which  I  watched  the  red 
caverns  in  the  fire,  and  dared  not  move  for  fear 
of  waking  her.  Once  a  coal  fell,  and  she 
moaned  uneasily;  and,  after  that,  the  French 
clock  on 'the  sideboard  struck  the  hour.  But 
she  slept  through  it,  and  scarcely  seemed  to 
dream.  All  at  once  there  came  a  footstep  along 
the  passage,  and  a  hand  upon  the  handle  of  the 
door.  I  started  to  my  feet ;  but  it  was  too  late 
— my  aunt  was  already  aroused,  and  Dr.  Top- 
ham  was  in  the  room. 

"  The  danger  is  past,"  said  he,  breathlessly. 
"  He  is  awake— he  has  asked  for  you — the  deli- 
rium is  gone — he  will  live  !" 
•  •'  Whereupon  my  aunt  rose  up,  sat  down  again, 
covered  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  and,  after  a 
moment's  pause,  said  very  softly  and  distinctly : 

"Thank  God!" 

As  for  me,  I  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears, 
and  thought  my  heart  would  break  for  very 

joy! 

— ♦ — 
CHAPTER  XII. 

CONTALE  SCEN  C  E. 

Here  is  a  pleasant  room  overlooking  a  gar- 
den. The  ceiling  is  lofty,  and  the  cornice  shows 
traces  of  faded  gilding.  "Where  the  walls  are 
not  covered  with  pictures,  they  are  lined  with 
serious-looking  books  in  suits  of  sober  calf  and 
classic  Russia.  Above  the  mantlepiece  hangs 
an  oval  portrait  of  a  dark-eyed  lady,  with  her 
hair  in  powder.  The  likeness  of  a  gentleman  in  a 
peruke  and  ruffles  is  suspended  over  the  door. 
A  small  old-fashioned  harpsichord  stands  in  one 
corner,  laden  with  rococo  dragons  in  porcelain, 
and  nicknacks  in'  ivory  and  Japan.  A  huge 
screen  of  gilded  leather,  vaguely  representative 
of  Chinese  life  and  manners,  reaches  across  the 
)  lower  end  of  the  room.  A  cheerful  fire  burns 
.'  in  the  grate,  and  the  black  cat  on  the  rug  en- 
joys it  sleepily.  So  does  the  gentleman  on  the 
sofa  close  by,  as  he  lies  with  half-closed  eyes, 
forgetting  the  newspaper  which  fell,  just  now, 
neglected  from  his  hand,  and  the  orange,  ready- 
peeled,  which  waits  on  the  table  beside  him. 
Without,  the  sun  shines  brightly ;  but  here  it  is 
deliciously  subdued,  save  where  one  long  sun- 


beam slants  between  the  crimson  curtains  and 
the  green  Venetians,  and  falls  straight  on  the 
bended  head  of  a  little  girl,  who  is  half-sitting, 
half-lying,  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  surround- 
ed by  a  wilderness  of  sketches.  That  languid 
invalid  is  Hugh  Farquhar ;  that  busy  little  girl, 
myself. 

Alas  !  he  is  but  the  wreck  of  his  old  self,  and 
sadly  changed.  The  bronzing  of  many  climates 
has  all  faded,  and  left  a  waxen  pallor  in  its 
place.  His  cheeks  are  sunken ;  his  eyes  look 
unnaturally  large ;  and  there  are  deep  hollows 
about  his  temples,  where  the  veins  show  like 
thunderbolts.  His  beard,  too,  has  grown  long- 
er ;  and  his  hands  look  whiter  than  a  lady's, 
and  feebler  than  a  child's.  The  contrast,  alto- 
gether, between  his  strength  of  make  and  his 
physical  weakness  is  painfully  apparent.  The 
framework  is  there,  but  the  framework  only ; 
gaunt,  and  ruined,  and  waste  —  mere  bones, 
and  flaccid  muscle  —  a  Hercules  shorn  of  his 
strength.  Looking  up  at  him  presently  and  con- 
sidering these  things,  I  see  that  his  eyes  are  now 
quite  closed,  and  that  he  has  fallen  into  a  placid  , 
sleep.  Let  him  rest.  I  will  pore  silently  and 
contentedly  over  the  drawings,  till  he  wakes  — 
are  they  not  all  the  work  of  his  dear  hands  ? 

Italian  skies  and  clusters  of  dark  pines ; 
scraps  of  desert-scenery  with  processions  of 
camels  trampling  their  distorted  shadows  under- 
foot ;  glimpses  of  Algerian  cactus-woods,  and 
strange  curves  of  Indian  rivers  where  the  jun- 
gle grows  down  to  the  water's  edge  —  here  were 
all  these  and  more,  fantastic  as, the  changes  of 
a  dream  1 

At  length  I  came  upon  a  sketch  that  waked 
my  curiosity,  and  set  me  thinking.  It  was  a  ' 
snow  scene  among  Alpine  peaks,  with  a  group 
of  figures  on  a  ledge  of  rock  beneath  an  over- 
hanging precipice.  One  man  lay  stretched  on 
the  snow,  and  three  others,  clad  in  rough  sheep- 
skins, stood  round  him,  leaning  on  their  lance- 
like poles.  The  wandering  mists  floated  below 
their  feet,  and  the  everlasting  summits  rose 
above  and  around  them.  Who  were  they? 
Where  were  they  ?  What  catastrophe  was  this  ? 
Was  he  dead  ?     What  had  killed  him  ;  or  who  ? 

"Why  so  earnest,  signorina?"  asked  Hugh, 
waking  presently.     "  Which  drawing  is  that  V 

I  turned  it  toward  him,  and  the  smile  died 
off  his  lips. 

"  Ah,"  said  he,  "  that's  a  sad  souvenir, 
petite  !    Put  it  away." 

I  laid  it  aside,  and  stole  over  to  the  footstool 
by  the  couch.     It  was  always  my  place  now. 

"  I  knew  it  was  a  true  picture,  Hugh,"  said  I, 
coaxingly.     "  Tell  me  about  it." 

He  closed  his  eyes,  as  if  on  some  painful 
sight,  and  shook  his  head  languidly. 

"  Cut  bono  ?  'Twould  make  you  melancholy," 
replied  he. 

"  I  like  to  be  melancholy  sometimes,  Hugh." 

"Nay  then,  mignonne,  so  do  I !  'Tis  a  dainty 
liking,  and  we  share  it  with  the  poets.  Sure  it 
must  be  Beaumont  who  says : 

'  There's  naught  in  life  so  sweet, 
Were  men  but  wise  to  see't, 

But  only  Melancholy ; 
Oh,  sweetest  Melancholy  ! ' 

Heigho  !  Barbara,  you  are  a  strange  little  girl, 
and  I  find  myself  talking  to  you  as  if  you  were 
a  woman  of  forty  !     Show  me  the  picture." 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


37 


I  brought  it  to  him,  and  he  looked  at  it  for 
some  seconds  without  speaking  —  then  drew  his 
finger  along  a  little  pathway  which  seemed  as  if 
trampled  through  the  snow. 

"  This  ledge  of  rock,"  he  said,  "  stands  four 
thousand  feet  above  the  valley,  and  the  valley 
lies  down  yonder.  That  narrow  track  leads  to  a 
mountain  village  called  Grieux,  many  hundred 
feet  lower.  There  it  is  green  and  sheltered ; 
but  up  here  the  snow  often  falls,  even  in  sum- 
mer. These  people  are  Tyroleans.  I  knew 
them  well,  and  lodged  in  their  cottage  for  many 
months ;  fishing  and  sketching,  and  chamois- 
hunting  every  day.  Francois  was  always  my 
guide  and  fellow-sportsman." 

"  Which  is  Fran9ois?"  I  asked,  eagerly. 

He  pointed  to  the  prostrate  figure,  and  then, 
in  an  altered  tone,  went  on  ; 

"  That  man  with  the  white  beard  is  old  Loi- 
zet,  the  father  of  these  three.  Frangois'^as  his 
favorite  son.  The  other  two,  Jean  and  Jacques, 
were  good  lads  enough ;  but  Frangois  was  a  fine 
intelligent  fellow,  brave  as  a  lion,  and  so  ten- 
der-hearted that  I  have  known  him  bring  home 
a  wounded  bird,  and  tend  it  in  his  own  cham- 
ber till  it  could  fly  again.  One  day,  when  he 
an^d  I  were  out, '  I  brought  down  a  chamois 
that  stood  poised  on  a  solitary  peak  overhead. 
It  fell,  and,  falling,  became  entangled  in  a 
clump  of  bushes,  half-way  down  the  precipice. 
Nothing  would  serve  Fran9ois  but  he  must  go 
and  fetch  it.  To  do  this,  he  was  forced  to  make  a 
circuit  of  more  than  a  mile,  and  when  h6  was 
gone  I  took  out  my  book,  leaned  against  a  rock, 
and  sketched  this  scene.  By  and  by,  I  saw  him 
on  the'peak.  I  waved  my  hat  to  him ;  and  he 
began  clambering  down,  agile  as  a  monkey.  On 
he  came,  a  step  at  a  time,  lower,  lower,  lower, 
till  within  a  foot  or  so  of  the  chamois !  Then 
he  grasped  the  upper  branches  of  the  bush  with 
one  hand,  planted  his  foot  on  a  projecting  stone, 
stooped,  uttered  a  wild  cry,  and  —  I  did  not 
see  him  fall,  Barbara.  I  saw  the  rotten  branch 
give  way  and  all  his  body  sway  forward  —  and 
I  closed  my  eyes  in  horror,  and  listened .'" 

"  Listened  !"  I  repeated,  in  a  low,  awe-struck 
tone.     "  What  did  you  hear,  Hugh  ?" 

"  I  heard  a  dull  sound,  as  of  something  re- 
bounding from  ledge  to  ledge.  When  I  looked 
up  again  he  lay  there,  as  you  see  him  in  the 
picture,  dead — dead,  within  a  few  yards  of  my 
feet !" 

I  covered  my  eyes  with  my  hands,  and  shud- 
dered. 

"  What  did  you  do  then  ?"  I  asked,  "after  a 
long  pause. 

"  I  went  down,  somehow,  like  one  half-asleep, 
and  found  the  old  man  cleaning  his  gun  before  his 
cottage-door.  I  can  not  remember  what  I  said.  I 
only  know  that  we  went  up  the  mountain  to- 
gether, Loizet,  Jean,  Jacques,  and  I,  and  that  it 
was  ,sunset  when  we  reached  the  fatal  spot. 
Then  we  bound  our  Alpine  staves  together,  and 
bore  the  corpse  down  into  the  village.  That 
was  three  or  four  years  ago,  Barbara  ;  and  his 
grave  was  quite  green  when  I  saw  it  last." 

As  he  spoke  these  words,  his  voice  sank  almost 
to  a  whisper,  and  he  laid  his  head  back  wearily. 
I  sat  still,  thinking  of  the  story  I  had  heard,  and 
wondering  why  and  when  he  added  the  figures  to 
the  sketch.  After  a  few  moments,  he  came  to  it 
of  his  own  accord,  and  said — 


"  The  scene  of  that  accident  haunted  me,  Bar- 
bara, for  months.  I  had  it  always  before  my 
eyes,  and  I  dreamt  of  it  nearly  every  night ;  so 
one  day  I  took  out  my  sketch  and  put  all  the  fig- 
ures in,  as  you  see  them.  I  thought  it  might  take 
away  something  of  the  vividness  of  the  impres- 
sion— transfer  it,  in  fact,  from  my  brain  to  the 
paper.  And  it  did.  I  thought  less  and  less  of 
it  from  that  time,  and  at  last  it  faded  altogether. 
Now  hide  the  picture  away.  I  had  rather  not 
see  it  again." 

I  obeyed;  gathered  all  the  drawings  into  a 
folio  ;  and  ,  crept  back  to  my  old  place.  To 
crouch  there  by  the  hour  together,  with  no  other 
occupation  than  now  and  then  to  fetch  his  med- 
icine, or  find  the  book  he  wished  for,  or  peel  his 
oranges,  made  me  the  happiest  of  creatures  ! 
Hugh  had  now  resumed  his  paper,  and  we  were 
silent  for  a  long  time.  Presently  the  door 
opened,  and  Tippoo  came  in,  with  two  cards  on  a 
salver. 

"  Lady  Bayham  and  Lady  Flora  Percivale  are 
at  the  door,  Sahib,"  he  said.  "  They  wish  to 
know  if  you  are  yet  able  to  receive  visitors." 

Hugh  looked  at  the  cards,  hesitated,  and  seem- 
ed as  if  he  knew  not  how  to  answer. 

"  I  had  not  intended  to  see  any  one,"  said  he, 
"  till  I  could  get  down  to  the  rooms  below." 

"  I  can  say  that  the  Sahib  has  not  yet  left  his 
chamber,"  said  Tippoo,  moving  away.  Hugh 
stopped  him  with  a  gesture. 

"  No,  no,"  he  exclaimed.  "  Tell  them  I  re- 
gret—  no,  that  I  hope  — Pshaw!  that  won't 
do  —  and  they  have  called  so  often,  too. 
Wheel  the  easy-chair  round  to  the  fire,  and  put 
that  medicine  out  of  sight,  and  say  that  if  they 
do  not  mind  an  extra  flight  of  stairs,  Mr.  Far- 
quhar  will  have  the  honor  of  receiving  them  ! 
'  Lord  Warwick,  on  thy  shoulder  will  I  lean,' — 
come,  Barbara,  I  am  not  going  to  be  found  on 
the  sofa,  anyhow !" 

To  help  him  across  the  room  and  put  the 
table  in  order,  was  the  work  of  a  moment.  As 
the  ladies  were  announced,  he  steadied  himself 
by  the  arm  of  the  chair,  and  rose  to  welcome 
them. 

I  recognized  Lady  Bayham  immediately.  She 
had  been  one  of  the  guests  at  the  dinner-party, 
and  even  there,  in  the  presence  of  many  younger 
women,  I  was  struck  by  her  exceeding  loveliness. 
Dark,  queenly,  rich-complexioned,like  her  daugh- 
ter, she  had  probably  been  even  more  beautiful 
than  Lady  Flora  at  Lady  Flora's  age.  Standing 
thus,  side  by  side,  it  would  have  been  difficult, 
even  now,  to  say  which  was  the  most  fascinating. 

"  Alas,  Mr.  Farquhar,"  said  Lady  Flora,  when 
the  first  greetings  were  spoken,  *'  I  have  never 
forgiven  myself— never  forgotten  that  I  was  the 
unhappy  cause  of  all  your  sufiering  !" 

"  You  ought  never  to  have  blamed  yourself," 
replied  Hugh,  smilingly.  "  The  fault,  if  fault 
there  were,  was  mine  only.  Since,  however,  it 
has  procured  me  the  pleasure  of  this  visit,  I  will 
not  be  so  ungrateful  as  to  regret  even  your  re- 
morse. You  are  very  good  to  come  up  all  these 
stairs  to  see  me." 

*'  It  is  a  cheerful  room  for  an  invalid,"  said 
Lady  Bayham  looking  round  observantly,  "  and 
has  a  quaint  old-fashioned  aspect,  as  if  you  had 
stolen  it  out  of  Kensington  Palace,  or  furnished 
it  after  an  interior  by  Hogarth." 

"  As  a  question  of  date,  Lady  Bayham,"  said 


38 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


Hugh,  *'  your  discrimination  is  perfect.  This 
room  was  my  grandfather's  '  closet,'  and  he  still 
occupies  it  in  effigy.  Yonder  hangs  his  portrait. 
All  that  you  see  here  was  of  his  purchasing. 
He  was  a  disciple  of  Horace  "Walpole  and  Beck- 
ford  —  a  lover  of  ugly  china,  and  a  worshiper 
of  idols.  These  were  his  favorite  authors ; 
some  few  old  Romans,  but  mostly  his  cotempo- 
raries  —  Sterne,  Fielding,  Richardson,  Thom- 
son, and  so  forth.  The  room  is  fairly  illustrative 
of  the  taste  of  that  time.  It  became,  after  his 
death,  my  father's  own  peculiar  den,  and  — " 

"  And  is  now  yours,"  interrupted  Lady  Flora. 
"  Are  you  an  idol-worshiper,  also  ?" 

Hugh  shook  his  head,  and  smiled. 

"  We  all  have  our  fetishes,"  he  said  ;  "  but  I 
believe  that  mine  are  few.  Old  china,  at  all 
events,  is  not  one  of  them." 

"  I  wish  I  knew  them,  few  as  they  are,"  said 
Lady  Flora,  musingly  ;  "  but  I  see  nothing  here 
which  might  serve  to  indicate  them." 

"  If  you  would  discover  my  tastes,  yoii  must 
first  discover  my  sanctum,''''  said  Hugh,  "  and  that. 
Lady  Flora,  lies  beyond  your  ken." 

"Ah,  you  have  a  sanctum  also  ?" 

"  The  holiest  of  holies." 

*'  Where  Hes  it  ?" 

"  That  is  a  secret  known  only  to  Tippoo  and 
myself" 

"  A  blue  closet !  Oh,  delightful !  We  will 
go  in  search  of  it,  while  you  are  too  ill  to  pre- 
vent us." 

"  Inutile  !  This  old  house  is  a  wilderness,  full 
of  dark  corners,  subtle  staircases,  and  '  passages 
that  lead  to  nothing.'  You  would  only  get  lost, 
like  Ginevra." 

"  That  you  might  discover  my  skeleton,  fifty 
years  to  come,  and  put  it  in  a  glass  case  for  the 
world  to  wonder  at !  Mr.  Farquhar,  you  are  an 
agreeable  prophet." 

"  Nay,  the  conclusion  is  your  own." 

"  Allons,  Sieur  de  Broomhill !  do  you  defy  me 
to  discover  your  retreat  ?" 

*'  Heaven  forbid  !  I  beheve  that  you  would 
then  leave  no  stone  unturned,  and  no  door  un- 
tried until  you  had  succeeded  !  I  have  too  much 
respect  for  my  own  peace  of  mind  ever  to  cast 
my  gauntlet  at  a  lady." 

"  Mr.  Farquhar  is  a  wise  soldier,"  said  Lady 
Bayham,  with  a  languid  smile,  "  and  knows  dis- 
cretion to  be  the  better  part  of  valor.  That 
is  a  charming  head  over  the  mantlepiece, 
and  painted,  if  I  mistake  not,  by  Sir  Thomas 
Lawrence." 

"  You  are  right,  madam,"  replied  Hugh,  "  Sir 
Thomas  Lawrence's  brush,  and  none  other." 

"  Indeed,  an  exquisite  head.  What  a  touch ! 
what  coloring !" 

"  And  what  a  subject !  Really,  mamma,  you 
might  spare  some  of  your  admiration  for  the 
nature  on  which  this  art  has  been  bestowed.  I 
never  saw  a  more  bewitching  expression,  or 
more  speaking  eyes !  Who  was  this  lady,  Mr. 
Farquhar  ?" 

"  That  lady,"  said  Hugh  seriously,  "  was  my 
mother." 

Both  visitors  uttered  an  exclamation,  and  rose 
to  examine  it  more  nearly. 

"  I  have  seen  Mrs.  Farquhar  many  times/'  said 
Lady  Bayham,  after  a  brief  silence  ;  "  but  she 
was  older  than  this,  and  much  altered.  She 
had  bad  health,  I  believe,  for  some  years  before 
she  died  ?" 


Hugh  bent  his  head,  and  looked  pained. 

*'  Powder,  too,  was  quite  gone  out  before  I 
married,  and  it  was  not  till  I  came  down  here 
with  my  husband  that  I  ever  met  your  mother. 
Fashion,  Mr.  Farquhar — fashion,  and  a  few 
years  more  or  less,  make  all  the  difierence  to 
our  sex  !" 

At  any  other  time,  and  Apropos  of  any  other 
topic,  Hugh  would  probably  have  made  the 
polite  speech  which  her  ladyship  expected  ;  but 
he  contented  himself  with  another  bow,  and 
silence.  Lady  Flora  bit  her  handsome  lip,  and 
flashed  a  warning  glance  at  her  mother ;  but  it 
was  of  no  use.  Her  ladyship  was  obtuse,  and 
went  on  scrutinizing  the  picture  through  her 
eyeglass. 

"  The  eyes,  Mr.  Farquhar,  are  hke  yours," 
she  said.  "  The  eyes  and  chin — but  I  see  no 
other  resemblance.  She  was  more  like  you 
when  older.  You  must  have  been  young  when 
she  died.  I  should  think  you  hardly  remember 
her  ?" 

"  I  remember  her,  madam,"  said  Hugh,  with 
a  mixed  grief  and  impatience  in  his  voice, 
"  more  distinctly  than  I  remember  the  events 
and  people  of  a  year  ago.  So  distinctly  that 
the  subject  is  inexpressibly  painful  to  me.  Lady 
Flora,  you  have  traveled,  I  think,  in  Italy — 
these  sketches  may,  perhaps,  interest  you.  Bar- 
bara mm,  place  the  folio  on  the  table." 

I  obeyed,  and  her  ladyship,  looking  at  me  for 
the  first  time,  asked  who  I  was.  He  drew  me 
fondly  to  his  side,  and  kissed  me  on  the  fore- 
head before  replying. 

"  Her  name  is  Barbara,"  said  he,  keeping  his 
arm  round  me.  "  Barbara  Churchill  ;  and  a 
very  formidable  little  damsel  she  is.  Descended 
from  no  less  a  person  than  the  great  Duke  of 
Marlborough,  and  mighty  proud  of  it,  also  !" 

Lady  Flora  smiled,  raised  her  eyebrows,  said 
"Ah,  in-deed  !"  and  became  absorbed  in  the 
folio.  Hugh,  however,  went  on,  without  seem- 
ing to  care  whether  she  was  interested  or  not. 

"  It  was  to  this  little  girl,"  said  he,  "  that  I 
first  showed  my  Paul  Veronese — nay,  more,  it 
was  to  please  her  that  I  first  had  the  packing- 
case  opened  in  which  it  came  from  Venice.  She 
is  a  great  connoisseur,  Lady  Flora ;  a  reader  of 
parliamentary  debates ;  a  player  of  whist,  piquet, 
and  ecarte ;  and,  besides  all  this,  my  most  es- 
pecial friend,  nurse,  playmate,  and  companion. 
Upon  my  honor,  I  don't  knew  what  I  should  do 
without  her.  She  has  been  my  right  hand  ever 
since  my  illness — ay,  and  my  left,  too,  for  that 
matter  1" 

Lady  Flora  looked  up  at  this  and  expressed 
herself  "  immensely  interested,"  while  Lady 
Bayham  honored  me  with  such  a  long,  cool, 
supercilious  stare,  that  I  felt  myself  grow  red 
and  hot,  and  knew  not  where  to  look. 

"If  your  hatreds  be  as  determined  as  your 
friendships  are  enthusiastic,  Mr.  Farquhar," 
said  she,  "  I  should  be  sorry  to  offend  you.  Is 
'^oViV  protegee  a  paragon  ?" 

He  turned  and  took  me  by  the  hand. 

"  There  is  but  one  Barbara,"  said  he  gayly, 
"  and  Hugh  Farquhar  is  her  Trumpeter  !  Lady 
Flora,  that  sketch  of  an  Italian  vintage  was 
done  near  Naples,  where  the  famous  Lagrima 
Christi  is  grown  —  a  wine  of  which  travelers 
talk  more  than  they  taste ;  for  very  little  is 
made,  even  in  the  most  favorable  seasons. 
Mignonne,  run  down  to  Mrs.  Fairhead  for  me, 


BARBARA'S   HISTORY. 


39 


and  desire  her  to  send  up  a  bottle  of  ths«t  old 
Lagrima  with  the  yellow  seal — nay,  I  will  take 
no  refusal,  fair  guest.  Duly  to  appreciate  my 
sketch,  you  must  drink  of  the  vintage  which  in- 
spired it.  'Tis  but  an  illustration  of  an  illus- 
tration !" 

Delighted  to  escape,  I  hastened  from  the 
room  and  bounded  down  the  stairs.  At  the 
foot  of  the  second  flight,  I  came  face  to  face 
with  my  aunt,  who,  with  the  privileged  free- 
dom of  an  intimate,  was  going  up  unannounced. 

"  Well,  Bab,"  said  she,  "  I've  come  to  fetch 
you  home.     How  is  he  ?" 

"  Lady  Bayham  is  there,"  said  I,  "  and  Lady 
Flora." 

"  Lady  Bayh&m  and  Lady  Flora !"  echoed  my 
aunt,  sharply.  "  Mercy  on  us !  the  man's  hardly 
saved  from  his  grave  yet,  and  they're  here,  hus- 
band-hunting, already !  /  won't  go  up.  *  They're 
none  of  my  sort — a  poor,  proud,  pret^tious, 
scheming  lot,  without  even  ancestors  to  fall 
back  upon !  If  he  marries  that  woman,  I'll 
never  forgive  him." 

"  Marries  her !"  I  repeated,  with  a  strange 
sinking  at  my  heart. 

"  Gracious  goodness  !"  continued  my  aunt, 
working  herself  up  and  getting  very  angry  in- 
deed, "  she's  thirty,  if  she's  a  day,  and  has  been 
on  hand  these  thirteen  years,  in  spite  of  her  fine 
eyes  and  her  flirtations  !  I  knew  what  they 
were  after,  sending,  and  calling,  and  leaving 
their  trumpery  coroneted  cards  every  day  ! 
She  hasn't  a  farthing,  either  —  not  a  farthing. 
Bayham's  over  head  and  ears  in  debt  —  every 
acre  mortgaged,  and  every  tree  !  Aha,  Lady 
Flora !  Broomhill  would  suit  your  ladyship 
pretty  well,  even  though  it  belongs  to  a  com- 
moner. There  was  a  time,  too,  when  you 
wouldn't  look  at  a  commoner!  Pshaw,  Bab, 
I've  no  patience  with  them.  Let's  go  home, 
child." 

"  You  won't  go  away  without  seeing  Hugh  !"  I 
exclaimed,  almogt  ready  to  cry. 

"  Why  not  ?  He  has  his  grand  friends  with 
him." 

"  But  he'd  rather  see  you  than  all  the  grand 
friends  in  the  world  !" 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  said  my  aunt; 
mollified,  but  unwilling  to  seem  so. 

At  this  moment,  his  bell  was  rung  impa- 
tiently. I  had  forgotten  all  about  the  La- 
grima Christi !  To  fly  past  my  aunt  without 
a  word  of  explanation,  fulfill  my  errand,  and 
run  back  again,  panting  and  breathless,  was  the 
work  of  a  few  seconds.  But  I  had  remembered 
it  too  late.  Before  the  last  vibrations  of  the 
bell  had  died  away,  I  heard  the  rustling  of  their 
silks  on  the  stairs ;  and,  looking  up,  saw  them 
already  coming  down.  My  aunt  muttered  some- 
thing which  was  certainly  no  compliment,  and 
turned  away  abruptly.  I,  taken  by  surprise, 
stepped  aside,  and  knew  not  whether  to  go  or 
stay.  Lady  Bayham  swept  by,  dignified  and 
unconscious  ;  but  Lady  Flora  paused  and  gra- 
ciously extended  the  tips  of  her  fingers. 

"  Good-by,  little  girl,"  said  she.  *'  What  is 
you  old-fashioned  name  ?  Tabitha — Dorothea — 
Pamela  ?" 

"Neither,"  I  replied  coldly.  "I  am  called 
Barbara." 

"  Ah,  true — Barbara.  Well,  good-by,  Bar- 
bara.    When  Mr.  Farquhar  is  better,  he  shall 


bring  you  some  day  to  Ashley  Park,  to  see 
me." 

And  with  this  she  nodded  and  passed  on,  not 
without  a  prolonged  stare  at  my  aunt,  who  was, 
apparently,  intent  upon  a  painting  at  the  further 
end  of  the  corridor.  No  sooner  were  they  gone 
than  Mrs.  Sandyshaft  came  striding  back,  very 
red  and  excited. 

"I  like  that!"  said  she.  "Mr.  Farquhar 
'  shall '  bring  you — she  answers  for  him  al- 
ready, hey  ?  You  shan't  go,  Bab.  I'll  not  hear 
of  it — I'll  not  allow  it.  An  artful  designing 
flirt !  If  I  had  my  will,  she  should  never  enter 
these  doors  again.  I  repeat  it,  if  he  marries 
that  woman  I'll  never  forgive  him !" 

Whereupon,  being  very  indignant,  my  aunt 
took  three  or  four  turns  along  the  corridor  to 
cool  herself,  and  then  went  up  two  stairs  at  a 
time.  As  for  me,  sorrowful  and  unsettled,  I 
wandered  about  below,  wondering  if  Hugh 
would  really  marry  Lady  Flora  some  day,  and 
thinking  how  sad  a  change  it  would  make  for 


CHAPTER  XIIL 

THE     SILVER     RING. 

Hugh  Farquhar  was  a  long  time  getting 
well.  Struck  down  when  the  snow  lay  on  the 
ground,  he  was  not  able  to  mount  his  horse 
again  till  the  primroses  lay  clustered  at  the  roots 
of  the  old  oaks  in  the  woods.  His  first  ride  was 
to  Stoneycroft  Hall — his  second  to  Ashley  Park. 
It  seemed  natural  to  conclude,  since  his  health 
was  so  far  reestablished,  that  our  intercourse 
would  be  firmer,  more  frequent,  more  intimate 
than  ever.  It  was  now  his  turn  to  repay  my 
aunt's  long  kindness — to  drop  in,  as  of  old — to 
chat  and  squabble,  and  play  piquet  of  an  even- 
ing, and  renew,  with  interest,  all  the  pleasant 
meetings  of  long  ago.  And  yet,  from  this  time, 
we  saw  less  of  him.  He  was  no  longer  a  stranger 
in  the  county ;  and  we  were  not,  as  formerly,  his 
only  friends.  Now  that  he  was  better,  visitors  and 
invitations  poured  in  upon  him;  and,  though 
he  cared  little  for  society,  he  loved  sport  too 
well  to  decline  the  last  hunting  parties  of  the 
season.  Still  this  was  not  all.  A  certain  imeasy 
sense  of  change  came  over  the  spirit  of  our  inter- 
course. Something  of  the  old  genial  feeling 
was  gone,  and  things  were  no  longer  quite  the 
same.  I  believe,  after  all,  that  it  was  Mrs.  San- 
dyshaft's  own  fault,  and  that  from  first  to  last 
she  had  but  herself  to  blame.  She  had  made  up 
her  mind  that  he  should  not  like  Lady  Flora  too 
well  ;  and  she  could  not,  for  her  life,  forbear  to 
taunt  him  with  the  pride,  poverty,  and  matri- 
monial designs  of  the  Bayham  family.  She 
could  scarcely  have  done  any  thing  more  injudi- 
cious. He  liked  these  people  tolerably  well, 
visited  somewhat  frequently  at  Ashley  Park, 
and  was  received  there  as  a  welcome  guest. 
What  was  it  to  him  if  Lord  Bayham  were  in  debt  ? 
His  dinners  were  none  the  less  pleasant,  and  his 
port  tasted  none  the  worse.  Lady  Flora  might 
be  thirty  and  a  flirt ;  but  she  amused  him,  and 
he  could  enjoy  her  society  without  incurring  the 
peine  forte  et  dure  of  either  courtship  or  matri- 
mony. When  first  attacked  by  my  aunt's  petu- 
lant sarcasms,  he  laughed,  and  parried  them. 
When   he  found  them  persistently  leveled  at 


40 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


himself,  he  grew  weary.  By  and  by,  seeing  the 
same  thing  persevered  in,  he  became  impatient. 
Thus  it  happened  that  bitter  tilings  were  some- 
times said  ;  that  argument  too  often  approached 
the  confines  of  disagreement ;  and  the  old  times 
never  came  back. 

I  missed  him — oh,  how  I  missed  him  !  Lat- 
terly, as  he  was  recovering  from  -his  illness, 
Broomhill  had  become  almost  another  home  to 
me  !  I  was  there  nearly  every  day.  I  knew 
where  to  find  his  favorite  books ;  how  to  fill 
his  pipe  ;  which  flowers  he  liked  best ;  when  to 
be  silent ;  and  when  to  talk  to  him.  Sometimes 
I  almost  wished  that  he  could  remain  thus  for- 
ever, that  I  might  forever  wait  on  him.  Now, 
however,  my  occupation  was  gone,  and  I  found 
myself  forgotten.  Let  it  not  be  thought  that  I 
blame  him  for  it,  I  was  but  a  childish  hand- 
maiden, and  held  but  a  childish  claim  upon  him.^ 
He  had  all  my  heart,  and  gave  me  for  it  a  kind 
word  now  and  then ;  a  stray  caress  ;  a  passing 
thought  when  he  had  nothing  else  to  think  of. 
To  him  I  was  something  less  than  a  pastime — 
to  me  he  was  something  more  than  my  life. 
What  wonder,  then,  that  I  grew  pale  and  thin, 
and  drooped  like  a  neglected  plant  ? 

"  Bab,  you  don't  walk  enough,"  said  my  aunt 
one  warm  spring  morning.  "  You've  lost  all 
your  color,  and  you  eat  next  to  nothing.  This 
won't  do.  Put  on  your  bonnet,  and  lay  in  a 
Stock  of  oxygen  directly," 

I  obeyed,  and  took  the  path  to  the  woods. 
To  reach  them,  I  passed  first  through  a  large 
field  where  a  single  plowman  was  driving  fra- 
grant furrows  in  the  rich  red  earth,  and  then 
through  a  hop-garden,  gaunt  with  poles,  around 
which  the  young  plants  were  just  twining  their 
first  tendrils.  Then  over  a  high  stile,  and  into 
the  shade  of  the  woods. 

What  words  of  mine  shall  describe  the  peace- 
ful beauty  of  the  place  that  day  ?  The  sky  was 
gray  and  low,  and  there  was  a  soft  air  abroad, 
heavy  with  gathered  odors  of  May-blossom  and 
wild  hyacinths.  The  close  young  leaves  made 
a  sylvan  roof  above,  and  steeped  every  vista  in 
a  green  and  dreamy  gloom.  The  birds  sang  to 
distraction  in  the  uppermost  boughs.  The 
clouds  met  every  now  and  then,  and  melted  into 
a  warm  and  gentle  shower.  In  some  places  the 
ground  was  all  golden  with  primroses,  and  in 
others  the  banks  were  so  blue  with  hyacinths 
that  no  artist  dared  to  paint  them.  By  and  by, 
I  came  to  an  open  space  carpeted  with  springy 
turf,  in  the  midst  of  which  stood  a  gamekeeper's 
cottage  and  a  group  of  hiorse-chestnuts  covered 
with  white  blossoms.  Here  a  bloodhound  sprang 
out  of  his  kennel,  straining  to  the  full  length  of 
his  chain,  and  barking  at  me  till  I  turned  aside 
into  the  close  paths  again,  and  wandered  out  of 
sight.  Now  I  chanced  upon  a  spot  where  the 
woodcutters  had  lately  been  at  work.  They 
had  left  the  saw  half  buried  in  the  stem  of  one 
tall  beech,  and  another  lay  felled  and  stripped 
beside  it,  like  the  skeleton  of  the  giant  Pagan, 
in  the  Pilgrim's  Progress.  Presently  a  tiny 
brown  squirrel  darted  by,  and  ran  up  a  larch- 
tree  ;  and,  farther  on,  I  saw  ar  pheasant  stalking 
through  the  faded  ferns.  Here  it  was  more 
silent,  more  solitary,  more  sylvan  than  ever.  I 
i  sat  down  to  rest  on  an  old  mossy  stump,  listen- 
ing to  the  silence  and  to  those  sounds  that  make 
such  silence  deeper.     Now  and  then  I  heard  the 


cucloo's  two  sad  notes ;  and,  nearer,  the  cooing 
of  a  wood-pigeon, 

"  How  pleasant  it  would  be,"  thought  I,  "  to 
live  here  in  a  thatched  cottage  with  roses  grow- 
ing over  the  door,  and  drink  new  milk  and  eat 
wild  strawberries  every  day.  But  then  it  should 
be  always  summer-time ;  and  one  would  want  to 
know  the  language  of  the  birds,  like  the  Prince 
in  the  fairy-tale  !" 

And  then  I  remembered  that  Hugh  had  told 
me  that  story — told  it  to  me  one  morning  with 
his  arm  about  my  waist  and  his  pale  cheek  rest- 
ing languidly  against  a  pillow — and  this  remem- 
brance brought  tears  with  it.  It  i^  sometimes  a 
luxury  to  shed  tears ;  and  to-day,  in  this  balmy 
solitude,  with  the  last  slow  drops  of  the  passing 
shower  yet  falling  around  me,  it  was  both  sad 
and  sweet  to  weep. 

Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  the  stillness,  and  so 
close  that  it  seemed  to  come  from  behind  the 
tree  against  which  I  was  sitting,  I  heard  the 
crack  of  a  rifle  !  At  the  same  instant  something 
hissed  past  my  ear ;  a  small  bird  fluttered  to  my 
feet ;  a  dog  and  a  man  came  crashing  through 
the  underwood  ;  a  well-known  voice  cried — *'  My 
God  !  I  might  have  killed  her  !" — and  I  found 
myself  clasped  in  Hugh  Farquhar's  arms  ;  safe, 
frightened,  trembling,  but  very  happy. 

For  the  first  few  moments  he  was  even  more 
agitated  than  myself.  Then  he  flung  away  his 
gun,  sat  down  upon  the  broken  tree-stump,  held 
me  at  arm's  length,  looked  in  my  eyes  till  his 
own  grew  dim. 

"  Oh,  Barbara — little  Barbara  !"  said  he  ten- 
derly. "  What  should  I  have  done  if  I  had 
harmed  thee?" 

I  nestled  closer  to  him  ;  and,  for  answer,  laid 
my  cheek  down  on  his  shoulder. 

*'  I  marvel,"  he  went  on,  "  that  the  ball  spared 
thee,  deary.  See  where  it  grazed  the  bark  yon- 
der ;  and  see  where  the  woodcock  lies — why,  it 
must  have  sped  within  an  inch  of  thy  head  !" 

"  I  heard  something  whistle  by,"  I  said,  shud- 
deringly ;  "  but  it  all  happened  so  quickly  that  I 
had  no  time  for  fear." 

He  kissed  me  on  the  forehead,  and  was  silent 
after  this  for  several  minutes. 

"  It  must  be  three  weeks  since  I  saw  thee  last, 
mignorme^'''  said  he,  at  length.  "  How  the 
time  slips  through  one's  fingers !" 

"  It  has  seemed  very  slow  to  me,  Hugh." 

"  Because  you  are  young,  happy,  unoccupied 
— ^because  life  is  fresh  to  you — because  you 
count  by  impressions,  instead  of  deeds.  Tush, 
child,  the  sands  will  run  fast  enough  by  and  by  ! 
Too  fast— too  fast !" 

"  Why  too  fast  ?" 

"  Because  the  world  is  a  mighty  pleasant  place, 
and  one  would  like  thoroughly  to  enjoy  it! 
Think  of  all  the  books  that  we  must  leave  un- 
read, all  the  pictures  we  must  leave  unseen,  all 
the  countries,  people,  sciences,  ^  experiences 
which  we  must  forego  for  want  of  time  to  know 
them !  I  hate  to  be  hurried,  Barbara  mia, — 
especially  by  that  relentless  old  gentleman  who 
carries  the  hour-glass  and  scythe  !" 

The  dog,  which  had  all  this  time  been  snuffing 
the  fallen  woodcock,  now  took  it  in  his  mouth, 
brought  it  gravely  up,  and  laid  it  at  his  master's 
feet,  A  strange  flash  of  expression  passed  over 
Hugh  Farquhar's  face. 

''  Porapey,"  said  he,  "  what  have  I  done,  oh, 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


41 


most  satirical  of  puppies !  that  thou  should'st 
rebuke  me  thus  ?  Lo  !  my  very  dog  cuts  jokes 
upon  me,  and  turns  up  his  tail  in  'contempt  of 
my  philosophy  !  Pompey,  I  confess  it.  I  am  a 
humbug —  an  egotist — a  base,  one-sided  casuist ! 
I  love  life ;  I  grumble  at  death — and  I  shoot 
woodcocks  !     'Tis  Wordsworth  who  bids  us 

'  Never  to  blend  our  pleasures  or  our  pride 
With  sorrow  of  the  meanest  thing  that  feels.' 

That's  very  good  poetry,  and  better  morality — 
yet  Wordsworth  ate  game, ,  like  many  a  worse 
man." 

All  this  was  said  mockingly,  sadly,  abstracted- 
ly, more  to  himself  than  to  me.  Having  spoken, 
he  paused  with  his  chin  in  his  hand,  and  sat  for 
a  long  time,  looking  at  the  dog  and  the  bird. 
His  attitude  was  meditative,  his  complexion  paler 
than  before  his  illness,  his  expression  more  than 
usually  thoughtful.  I  crouched  by,  looking  at 
him,  listening  to  him,  treasuring  up  every  syl- 
lable. Considering  all  things,  I  followed  the  in- 
tention of  his  words  more  nearly*  than  might 
have  been  expected. 

"  Petite,'''  said  he  suddenly,  "  when  you  don't 
see  me  for  three  weeks  or  a  month  together, 
do  you  ever  think  of  me  ?'' 

"  Think  of  you,  Hugh  !"  I  faltered.  I  did 
not  dare  to  tell  him  that  I  thought  of  nothing 
else. 

He  laughed,  and  passed  his  hand  over  my 
hair. 

"  If  I  were  to  go  away  again,"  he  said,  "  you 
would  forget  me." 

"Never,  Hugh  !    Never  so  long  as  I  live." 
Startled  by  the  earnestness  of  my  voice,  he 
turned  half  round,  took  my  head  between  his 
two  hands,  and  looked  at  me. 

"  My  child  1  my  little  friend  !"  said  he  wonder- 
ingly.     "  Why,  what  a  pale  face  is  this  !" 

I  tried  to  smile  ;  but  the  effort  was  too  much 
for  me.  I  felt  my  lip  quiver  and  my  eyes  fill 
up,  and  so  dropped  my  head  upon  his  knee, 
and  sobbed  aloud. 

"You — you  won't  go  away,  will  you  ?"  I  cried 
passionately.  "You  won't  go  away — or — or 
marry  Lady  Flora  ?" 

"Marry  Lady  Flora!"  he  repeated  quickly. 
"  What  put  that  into  your  head  ?  Who  says  it  ? 
Nay,  child,  I  will  know  !" 
"  Every  body." 

"  And  who  is  every  body,  pray  ?" 
"  I — I  don't  know — Doctor  Topham  told  us 
that — that  every  body  says  so.     Please,  Hugh, 
don't  be  angry — I — I  am  so  sorry  ;  but  it's  quite 
true." 

"Is  it,  by  Jove?"  exclaimed  he,  starting 
angrily  to  his  feet,  and  striding  to  and  fro. 
"  What  an  obliging  world  it  is,  and  how  flatter- 
ing is  the  interest  with  which  it  dives  into  one's 
private  affairs  1" 

I  saw  that  he  was  vexed,  and  so  held  my 
tongue  and  tried  to  subdue  the  sobs  that  kept 
rising  in  my  throat. 

Presently  he  came  and  stood  before  me. 
"Upon  my  soul,  Barbara,"  said  he,  with  a 
bitter  laugh,  "  I  think  I  had  better  marry  you, 
and  stop  the  people's  mouths  that  way  !  What 
say  you  ?  WiU  you  be  my  little  wife  seven  years 
to  come  ?" 

I  knew  it  was  a  jest ;  and  yet  I  felt  my  heart 
beat,  and  my  cheeks  grow  scarlet. 


"You  don't  mean  it,"  said  I;  "and  if  you 
did " 

*'  Oh,  but  I  do  mean  it,  though,"  returned 
he.  "  Put  your  hand  in  mine,  and  say  '  Hugh 
Farquhar,  seven  years  hence,  wlien  I  am  old 
enough,  I  will  marry  you.'  Come,  that's  easy 
enough !" 

I  trembled  from  head  to  foot.  I  longed  to 
say  it,  but  dared  not.  He  sat  down,  still  laugh- 
ing, drew  me  on  his  knee,  and  began  disengag- 
ing a  curious  silver  ring  from  a  variety  of  seals 
and  other  trifles  that  hung  at  his  watchguard. 

"See  now,"  said  he,  "I  mean  to  betroth  you 
with  all  due  form  and  ceremony.  This  is  an 
ugly  thing ;  but  a  curiosity.  I  got  it  from  an 
Arab  in  the  desert  near  the  Dead  Sea,  and 
gave  him  my  penknive  in  exchange  for  it.  Now, 
Barbara  mia,  say  the  words  I  told  you,  and  you 
shafl  have  the  Arab's  ring." 

Seeing  that  I  still  hesitated,  he  went  through 
the  sentence  again,  and  I  repeated  it  after  him, 
whisperingly  and  with  averted  face. 

"Lady,  by  yonder  blessed  moon,  I  swear," 
said  he,  placing  the  ring  with  mock  solemnity 
on  the  third  finger  of  my  left  hand,  "  that  tips, 
most  appropriately  with  Arabic  silver,  all  these 

fruit-tree   tops unfortunately  the  moon  is 

absent  just  now,  on  a  visit  to  our  antipodes ;  but 
we  can  do  without  it  on  the  present  occasion ! 
Now  kiss  me,  Barbarina,  and  promise  not  to  say 
a  word  of  this  to  any  body," 

I  gave  the  promise  readily.  \ 

"  Corpo  di  Bacco .'"  said  he,  now  I'll  give 
'  every  body,'  something  to  gossip  about !  I'll 
proclaim  that  I  am  an  engaged  man — what  a 
joke!  what  a  mystery!  what  a  test!  By  Jupi- 
ter, if  the  Bayharas  have  any  design " 

He  paused ;  put  me  gently  aside ;  rose ; 
and  again  paced  backward  and  forward,  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  ground,  and  his  hands  clasped 
behind  his  back.  Coming  back  presently  to 
where  I  was  standing  he  saw  me  still  occupied 
with  the  ring. 

"You  can  not  wear  it,  miffnonne,^^  he  said. 
"It  is  twice  too  large  for  your  little  slender 
finger." 

"  But  I  want  to  wear  it,  Hugh.  Always  to 
wear  it." 

"  Do  you  ?  Nay,  then,  you  shall  have  my 
guard,  and  carry  it  around  your  neck,  like  a 
locket.  Do  you  see  those  curious  characters  en- 
graved upon  it  ?  They  are  Arabic  letters,  and 
spell  the  name  of  Allah.  So  that's  capitally 
contrived.  *  Now  remember,  Barbara,  if  any  one 
sees  it,  or  asks  you  about  it,  say  I  gave  it  to  you 
— not  a  word  more  or  less." 

It  was  a  tiny  elastic  guard,  no  thicker  than  a 
thread,  and,  having  attached  the  ring  to  it,  he 
put  it  with  his  own  hands  round  my  neck. 

"Life  is  made  up,"  said  he,  "of  curious 
chances.     I  began  by  nearly  shooting  you  this 

morning,  little  one,  and  I  have  ended  by 

Pshaw  !  a  betrothal  is  better  than  a  bullet,  any- 
how !  Seven  years — seven  short,  long,  pleasant, 
miserable  years.  How  much  taller  do  you  mean 
to  be  by  then,  Barbara  ?  *  Just  as  high  as  my 
heart,'  as  Orlando  saith  of  Rosalind?  Why, 
body,  o'  me  !  how  seriously  the  darling  takes  it ! 
Pale  one  minute,  red  another,  and  trembling 
like  a  frightened  fawn.  Come,  this  won't  do, 
Barbara.  Cheer  up,  and  bid  me  goodby ;  for  I 
have  brought  down  but  this  one  bird  to-day,  and 


43 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


I  must  offer  up  more  sacrifices  to  Cupid  before  I 
go  home." 

I  forced  a  smile,  and  put  up  my  face  to  kiss 
him. 

"  Good-by,  Hugh,"  I  said.  "  When  are  you 
coming  again?" 

"I'll  come — let  me  see I'm  engaged  for 

two  days — three  days  this  week,  and  to-day  is 
Monday.     Well,  petite^  I'll  come  on  Friday." 

I  flushed  all  over  with  delight. 

"  Will  you,  really  V  I  asked,  with  my  whole 
heart  on  my  lips. 

"I  will,  really.  Now  go  home  before  the 
next  shower  comes  up.     Adieu,  my  lady-love." 

And  with  this  he  pressed  his  lips  once  again 
to  my  cheek,  bagged  the  woodcock,  whistled  to 
Pompey,  shouldered  his  gun,  and,  with  a  last 
wave  of  the  hand,  plunged  into  the  copse  and 
disappeared. 

I  sat  there  a  long  time — ^long  enough  for  the 
shower  to  come  and  go,  and  the  shadows  per- 
ceptibly to  shift  upon  the  grass.  Once  I  heard 
the  distant  echo  of  his  gun ;  but  I  remember 
only  that,  and  the  strange,  vague,  dreamy 
wonder  with  which  I  sat  looking  at  the  ring. 
He  had  asked  me  to  be  his  " little  wife"  seven 
years  to  come.  Was  he  not  both  in  jest  and  in 
earnest  ?  What  did  it  all  mean,  and  how  was  it 
to  end  ? 

By  and  by  I  adjusted  the  chain  in  such  a 
manner  that  no  one  could  observe  it,  and  went 
home.  The  day  thus  went  by,  slowly,  delicious- 
ly,  like  a  perplexed  but  happy  dream ;  and  that 
night  I  fell  asleep  with  the  ring  clasped  tightly 
in  my  hand,  and  that  name  that  he  had  given  me 
yet  lingering  on  my  lips. 


CHAPTER  XIY. 

THE   ROUNDING   OP  THE   YEAR. 
"  Adieu,  mes  beaux  jours !" — Marie  Stcart. 

The  Friday  morning  came — the  morning  of 
the  day  on  which  Hugh  had  promised  to  call. 
I  had  been  conscious  of  it  all  night,  in  my 
dreams;  and  now*,  as  the  first  sunbeams  touched 
my  window-panes,  I  woke,  knowing  that  the 
weary  days  of  waiting  had  gone  by,  and  I  should 
see  him  soon  again. 

The  morning  was  brilliant,  mistless,  and  crim- 
son toward  the  East.  It  was  yet  very  early; 
for  yonder,  across  a  field  just  opposite  the 
house,  went  the  laborers  to  their  work.  Al- 
though it  was  not  yet  time,  I  rose  and  dressed, 
opened  the  casement,  and  leaned  out  into  the 
fresh  air  to  gather  a  few  leaves  from  the  myrtle 
that  clustered  without.  Reaching  forward  thus, 
bathing  my  head  in  the  sunshine  and  my  little 
white  arms  in  the  dew  of  the  dark  leaves,  it  oc- 
curred to  me  all  at  once  that  this  was  the  month 
of  May  again,  and  that  I  had  been  here  just  one 
year. 

Yes,  a  year,  a  whole  year,  during  which  I  had 
beheld  all  the  changes  of  nature ;  seen  the  green 
things  flourish  and  die,  and  be  born  again  ;  wit- 
nessed the  fading  of  the  frost  and  the  falling  of 
the  snow;  and  watched  how  the  morning  sun 
varied  in  his  rising  as  the  months  rolled  on.  It 
seemed  but  yesterday  when  yonder  dusky  fallow 
was  yellow  with  corn — when  the  oak  beside  the 
pond  wore  a  brief  livery  of  scarlet  and  gold — 


when  the  blackberries  lay  thick  in  the  hedge, 
and  the  dead  leaves  rotted  in  the  lanes.  What 
a  happy  year,  and  how  quickly  it  had  flown ! 
I  had  heard  little  from  London  all  this  time.  A 
formal  letter  was  once  or  twice  exchanged  be- 
tween my  father  and  my  aunt;  but  excepting 
that  my  sisters  were  Avell,  that  Miss  Whymper 
continued  as  usual  to  teach  them,  and  that  dear 
old  Goody  always  sent  her  love,  I  knew  nothing 
of  my  home  or  its  inmates.  I  fear  I  had  not 
much  thought  or  care  to  know  more.  Happy 
and  unrestrained,  I  only  desired  to  stay  here  for- 
ever. 

"  Ahi !  con  che  afltetto  amore  e  il  ciel  pregai 
Che  fosse  eterno  si  dolce  soggiorao  !" 

By  and  by,  finding  that  as  yet  there  was  no 
one  stirring  in  the  house,  I  got  a  book,  curled 
myself  up  in  the  embrasure  of  the  window,  and 
began  to  read.  I  remember  the  book  as  well  as 
possible — it  was  Dodsley's  translation  of  Boc- 
caccio, and  the  story  was  Griselda — but  I  also 
remember  that  I  could  not  keep  my  attention  to 
the  tale;  th^t  my  thoughts  wandered  away  to 
Hugh  Farquhar  and  my  hands  to  the  silver  ring, 
and  that  I  fell  into  a  long  dream  from  which  I 
was  at  last  aroused  by  the  swinging  of  the 
garden-gate,  and  the  halting  tread  of  the  lame 
postman  on  the  gravel  walk.  Seeing  me  at  the 
window,  he  touched  his  cap  and  smiled,  then 
left  the  letters  in  the  porch,  and  hobbled  away 
again  with  his  leathern  satchel  swinging  at  his 
side.  I  watched  him  to  the  turn  of  the  road, 
and  then,  knowing  by  this  time  the  household 
must  be  awake  and  stirring,  went  down-stairs. 

I  found  my  aunt  in  the  breakfast-parlor. 
She  was  standing  at  the  window  with  her  back 
toward  me,  and  an  open  letter  in  her  hand. 
An  indefinable  something  in  her  attitude,  in  the 
way  that  she  kept  her  head  turned  from  me, 
struck  me  the  moment  I  went  in.  I  was  about , 
to  speak;  but  hesitated  and  stood  still.  She 
then  folded  the  letter  up,  slowly  and  deliberate- 
ly, and  came  over  to  the  breakfast-table.  Si- 
lently I  took  my  accustomed  seat  in  the  great 
carved  chair  opposite.  I  felt  that  something 
was  wrong.  I  saw  that  she  was  pale,  and  that 
her  hand  trembled.  She  laid  the  letter  beside 
her  plate.  I  could  not  see  the  writing;  but 
the  seal  looked  like  my  father's,  large,  round, 
and  firm,  with  showy  armorial  bearings. 

A  weary  quarter  of  an  hour  went  by,  during 
which  I  ate  little,  and  my  aunt  nothing.  Now 
and  then  she  cast  a  troubled  glance  at  the  let- 
ter ;  but  she  only  once  lifted  her  eyes  to  my  face. 
Had  I  done  any  thing  to  offend  her  ? 

The  silence  became  oppressive,  and  seemed 
all  the  more  intolerable  for  the  sunshine  and 
splendor  of  the  outer  day.  The  hall  was  flood- 
ed with  a  goldto  hght,  and  the  pleasant  farm- 
house sounds  came  mingled  with  the  singing  of 
the  birds.  Oh,  how  I  longed  to  be  out  in  the 
free  air,  and  what  a  rehef  it  was  when  my  aunt 
pushed  back  her  chair  and  said  : — 

"  Bab,  I  have  letters  to  write  this  morning,  and 
must  be  alone.  Go  out  and  amuse  yourself  till 
ten  o'clock." 

Welcome  permission  !  To  call  the  dogs,  tie 
on  my  broad-brimmed  country  hat,  and  dance 
away,  reveling  like  a  butterfly  in  the  sun,  was 
for  me  but  the  work  of  a  few  seconds.  Down 
the  "  checkered  shade "  of  the  green  lanes ; 
across  the  meadow,  yellow  with   buttercups ; 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


43 


through  the  churchyard  where  the  vicar's  old 
gray  cob  was  grazing ;  up  the  drift  where  the 
hay  which  they  had  been  carting  late  the  night 
before  was  yet  cUngiug  to  the  hedges  on  either 
side ;  over  more  meadows  and  through  more 
lanes  we  went,  and  thus  came  back  toward 
home  so  warm  and  weary  that  I  was  glad  to  sit 
down,  at  last,  under  the  shadow  of  a  clump  of 
young  alders,  and  rest  till  it  was  time  to  go  in. 
"  Cuckoo  !"  intoned  the  messenger  of  summer, 
from  a  copse  close  by ;  and  then  I  remembered 
the  old  German  superstition,  and  said  to  myself 
— "  Yes,  I  shall  be  here  next  year !  I  shall  still 
be  here,  and  I  shall  still  be  happy  !" 

Presently  the  church  clock  far  away  chimed 
the  three-quarters,  and  I  went  home.  My  aunt 
was  waiting  for  me  at  the  gate.  She  shaded  her 
eyes  with  her  hand  when  she  saw  me  coming, 
and  looked  at  me  earnestly. 

"  Come  here,  Bab,"  said  slie,  stalking  tfp  the 
path  before  me,  and  taking  her  seat  in  the  porch. 
"  Come  and  sit  here.  I  have  something  to  say 
to  you." 

I  sat  down,  my  heart  fluttering  with  a  vague 
apprehension ;  and  my  aunt  presently  began. 

"  Your  father  and  I  have  been  writing  to  one 
another  lately,  Bab,"  said  she.  "  Our  corre- 
spondence is  over  now,  however.  I  had  a  letter 
from  him  this  morning,  and  I've  answered  it, 
and  sent  my  answer  to  the  post ;  and  there  it 
ends.  What  do  you  suppose  we  have  been  writ- 
ing about  ?" 

I  shook  my  head.  How  should  I  know  what 
they  had  been  writing  about  ? 

"  Well,  Bab,  we've  been  writing  about  you." 
"About  me?" 

"  Yes,  and  as  you  must  know  the  issue  of  it,  it 
is  only  right  that  you  should  also  know  the  fore- 
goings.  I  wrote  first,  Bab.  I  wrote  to  ask  your 
father  to  leave  you  with  me  always.  You  have 
been  here  a  year,  Bab,  and  somehow,  I  have  got 
used  to  you — like,  to  have  you  about  me — Re- 
lieve you  to  be  a  true  child,  and  —  and  fancy 
you  have  some  kind  of  love  for  me,  old  and  dis- 
agreeable ae  I  am.  Hush  !  not  a  word.  Listen 
to  me  patiently  ;  for  I  have  more  to  tell  you. 
Well,  Bab,  I  wrote  to  your  father  and  told  him 
something  of  this.  I  offered  to  bring  you  up, 
educate  you,  and  be  a  mother  to  you.  I  never 
had  a  child  of  my  own,  and  I  should  have  liked 
to  keep  you  while  I  live,  provided  you  were  will- 
ing, Bab  —  always  provided  you  were  wilUng." 
"  Willing !"  i  repeated,  with  clasped  hands 
and  tear-filled  eyes.     "  Willing !" 

"  Ay — willing — which  I  believe  you  would  be. 
Well,  don't  let's  be  foolish,  child.  There's  more 
to  come.  Your  father  answered  my  letter,  and 
said  neither  '  yes '  nor  '  no  ;'  but  bargained  with 
me,  Bab — bargained  with  me — tried  to  trade  on 
the  love  I  bore  you,  and  turn  it  to  his  profit ! 
Didn't  I  say  it  from  the  first  ?  Didn't  I  guess  it 
from  the  first  ?  Didn't  I  tell  you  that  I  would 
be  your  friend  for  life,  but  bid  you  count  on  noth- 
ing— nothing — nothing  at  my  death  ?  Answer 
me,  child — do  you  remember  it  ?" 

Trembling,  I  bent  my  head,  but  had  no  power 
to  speak.  It  frightpned  me  to  see  her  in  these 
moods,  and  I  knew  that  this  was,  of  all  topics, 
the  one  which  moved  her  most.  She  rose  and 
took  a  turn  or  two  outside  the  porch,  looking 
strangely  angered  and  excited — then  came  back, 
resumed  her  seat,  and  went  on. 


"  Your  father,  Bab,"  said  she,  speaking  very 
calmly,  but  with  a  quivering  undertone  in  her 
voice,  "  is  a  very  clever,  worldly,  calculating  man 
— a  little  too  clever,  sometimes,  and  a  little  too 
worldly ;  apt  to  speculate  over-far  on  other  folks' 
weaknesses  ;  apt  to  overreach  himself,  now  and 
then — but  no  matter !  Now  what  do  you  think 
your  clever  father  proposed  to  sell  you  at — eh, 
Bab  ?" 

"  Sell  me !"  I  exclaimed,  the  indignant  blood 
flushing  all  my  face.     "  Sell  me !" 

"  Ay,  'tis  a  rough  word,  but  the  right  one,  Bab 
— chafe  under  it  if  you  will !  He  proposed — 
listen  to  this — he  proposed  that  I  should  not 
only  keep,  educate,  and  provide  for  you  ;  but  that 
I  should  will  my  property  to  you  and  your  two 
sisters,  share  and  share  alike.  Fancy  that — share 
and  share  alike !" 

Dumb  with  shame,  I  could  only  clasp  my 
hands  and  hang  my  head. 

"  Well,  the  wonder  is  that  I  didn't  tear  his 
letter  into  a  hundred  bits,  and  send  them  back 
by  the  next  post,"  said  my  aunt,  getting  excited 
again,  but  striving  hard  to  keep  calm.  "  But 
no — I  waited  two  whole  days,  and  thought  it 
all  out  from  beginning  to  end  before  I  answered 
it.  What  I  then  said,  Bab,  I  may  as  w-ell  tell 
you.  I  refused  his  conditions  point-blank.  I 
would  have  nothing  to  say  to  his  two  elder  girls 
— they  are  nothing  to  me,  and  always  will  be 
nothing.  I  refused  to  bind  myself  to  any 
promises,  even  on  your  account.  But  I  told 
him  that  if  he  left  you  here  and  trusted  to  my 
justice  and  generosity,  you  should  be  no  loser  at 
my  death.  What  I  meant  by  that  is  neither 
here  nor  there,  Bab.  It  might  have  been  all — 
it  might  have  been  half — at  all  events  it  would 
have  been  enough ;  but  what  I  insisted  on  was 
the  trust ;  and  what  I  hate  most  in  all  the  world 
is  to  be  dictated  to  !" 

"  Well — and  his  answer  ?"  I  asked  eagerly. 
"  Tush,  Bab,  let's  make  a  long  story  short ! 
We  argued,  and  bargained,  and  wrote  three  or 
four  letters,  and  couldn't  come  to  an  agreement 
anyhow.  This  morning  I  received  what  he  is 
pleased  to  call  his  ultimatum  ;  in  vehich  he  dis- 
tinctly states  that  I  must  either  keep  you  on  his 
terms  or  send  you  home.  He  counts  on  my 
love  for  you — he  believes  that  sooner  than  part 
from  you,  I  will  consent  to  any  thing  !  Well, 
to-morrow  morning  he  will  have  my  answer. 
It's  written,   and  it's  gone,  and  it's  all  over. 

Bab,  I— I " 

She  paused,  and  her  lip  trembled.  As  for. 
me,  I  rose  up,  sat  down,  rose  up  again,  and 
shook  from  head  to  foot. 

"  You  won't  send  me  away  !"  I  cried.  "  You 
— you  won't  send  me  away  !" 

"  Bab,"  said  she,  with  averted  face,  "  your 
mother  was  my  favorite  niece.  I  loved  her 
dearly ;  but  she  married  against  my  will,  and 
from  the  day  of  her  marriage  I  never  looked 
upon  her  face  again.  It  cost  me  a  deep  sorrow  ; 
but  I  did  it,  and  I  would  have  done  it,  had  it  cost 
me  twenty  times  that  sorrow.  Your  father  and 
I  have  been  enemies  ever  since,  and  our  enmity 
will  henceforth  be  deeper  than  before.  I  can 
not  be  his  tool  and  plaything,  Bab — I  can  not, 
and  I  will  not  !" 

"  Still  you  won't  send  me  away !"  I  repeated 
with  increasing  agitation.  "You  won't,  you 
can't  send  me  away  !" 


44 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


She  remained  silent  for  a  moment.  Then, 
nerving  herself  to  firmness,  said : — 

"  You  must  go  home,  Bab.     I  have  said  it." 

Go  home !  The  words  struck  upon  my  ear, 
but  bore  no  meaning  with  them.  Stunned, 
despairing,  dumb,  I  stood  before  her,  and 
neither  spoke  nor  wept.  Presently  she  also 
rose  and  turned  as  if  to  go  into  the  house ;  but 
our  eyes  met,  and  she  paused  with  her  hand  on 
the  latch. 

"  When?"  I  whispered,  rather  than  said. 

She  shook  her  head,  and  sighed  heavily. 

"  When  the  coach  comes  by  to-morrow,"  she 
replied  tremulously.  "  The  sooner  it's  over  the 
better,  Bab — the  sooner  the  better  !" 

An  involuntary  cry  of  anguish  escaped  me, 
and  I  sat  down  silently,  looking  at  her. 

"  God  help  us,  Bab  !"  said  she ;  then  stooped, 
kissed  me  hurriedly  on  both  cheeks,  and  went 
into  the  house. 

Oh,  the  weary,  weary  day !  Oh,  the  heavy 
hours — the  dreary  dinner-meeting — the  heart- 
ache, the  languor  of  soul,  the  tears  kept  back, 
and  ever  rising !  All  that  afternoon,  I  wander- 
ed like  a  restless  spirit  through  the  dear  familiar 
places.  I  visited  the  orchard,  the  sheep-fold, 
the  churchyard,  the  meadow  where  I  heard  the 
cuckoo  in  the  morning,  and  the  mossy  stump  in 
the  woods,  where  Hugh  Farquhar  sat  three  days 
ago.  To  each  I  said  "  good-by  ;"  and  yet,  though 
I  looked  and  lingered,  and  tore  myself  away,  I 
could  not  believe  it  was  for  the  last  time.  My 
only  hope  was  to  see  him  in  the  evening ;  my 
only  comfort  was  to  clasp  the  silver  ring  more 
closely  to  my  heart.  Somehow  or  another,  I 
had  a  vague  idea  that  he  alone  could  help  me  now, 
and  till  I  had  seen  him,  I  would  not  quite  despair. 
Was  he  not  my  ideal  of  goodness  and  bounty, 
wealth  and  power  ?  Was  he  not  still  my  hero 
and  my  prince,  and  was  it  not  natural  that,  even 
in  this  strait,  I  should  look  to  him  for  succor  ? 

The  day  faded  out  of  the  sky;  the  twilight 
thickened  ;  the  stars  came  out  one  by  one  ;  and 
still  I  waited,  hoped,  believed.  All  the  afternoon 
my  aunt  had  been  shut  up  in  her  own  room, 
and  now  she  and  Jane  were  pr.eparing  for 
my  departure.  There  was  no  one  to  forbid  me  ; 
so  I  went  out  and  stood  by  the  gate  in  the  dim 
starlight,  listening  for  his  coming.  The  night 
air  fanned  my  forehead  and  cooled  my  eyes, 
weary  as  they  were,  and  hot  with  weeping. 
Yonder  gleamed  the  light  at  my  chamber 
window,  and  now  and  then  a  shadow  flitted  across 
the  blind.  I  could  not  help  looking  toward  it,  for 
I  knew  what  was  going  forward  within — knew 
that  my  box  was  being  packed,  and  that  to- 
morrow I  must  go.  Alas !  there  was  both  grief 
and  anger  at  my  heart,  as  I  turned  away  again 
and  gazed  into  the  gloom  toward  Broomhill. 
My  only  hope  lay  in  Hugh  Farquhar  and  his 
influence ;  and  ever  as  I  waited,  counting  the 
minutes  and  the  beatings  of  my  heart,  that  hope 
grew  stronger. 

But  he  came  not.  One  by  one  the  quarters 
chimed  out  from  the  church-tower  over  the 
meadows — then  nine  o'clock  struck — then  the 
quarters,  one  by  one  again — then  ten  o'clock, 
and  I  knew  that  the  last  chance  was  past. 

He  had  forgotten  his  promise,  and  I  must  go 
without  even  bidding  him  farewell ! 


CHAPTER    XV. 

A   DREARY   WELCOM^J   HOME. 

Would  she  really  let  me  go  ?  Not  till  the 
last  moment  could  I  bring  myself  to  believe  it 
—  not  till  the  last  moment,  when  the  coach 
stood  at  the  gate  and  the  time  had  come  to  say 
"good-by."  Then  by  her  pallor,  by  her 
silence,  by  the  stony  determination  written  in 
every  line  of  her  countenance,  I  saw  that  it 
must  be.  Sick,  giddy,  quite  worn  out  with  sor- 
row and  wakefulness,  I  suffered  myself  to  be 
drawn  to  her  bosom,  and  felt  that  she  kissed  me 
twice  on  either  cheek. 

"  Good-by,  Bab,"  she  said,  hoarsely.  "  Heav- 
en bless  you !" 

But  I  had  no  strength  to  answer  —  I  could 
not  even  weep.  I  could  only  put  one  little  cold 
hand  in  hers,  and  dumbly,  drearily,  turn  away 
and  follow  Jane  to  the  gate.  The  guard  was 
waiting  with  the  door  open,  impatient  to  be 
gone ;  and  in  another  instant  I  felt  myself  lifted 
in ;  heard  the  starting-signal  given  ;  caught  one 
brief  glimpse  of  Jane  with  her  api'on  to  her 
eyes  ;  saw  that  my  aunt  was  no  longer  at  the 
porch;  and  found  myself  speeding  away  — 
away  toward  London. 

I  can  recall  little  or  nothing  of  what 
followed,  except  that  the  coach  was  empty,  and 
that  I  lay  back  in  a  corner,  stupefied  and 
motionless.  Once  I  put  my  hand  up  to  my  face 
and  found  my  cheeks  were  wet ;  and  I  recollect 
wondering  whose  tears  they  were,  and  how  they 
came  there  ;  but  beyond  this  I  seemed  to  notice 
nothing.  At  Ipswich  we  stopped,  as  usual,  for 
an  hour  ;  and  later  in  the  day  I  remember  wak- 
ing up,  as  if  from  a  deep  dream,  and  finding 
the  coach  quite  full  of  passengers.  How  or 
when  they  took  their  places,  and  of  what  age, 
sex,  or  station  they  were,  I  have  no  idea.  I 
only  know  that  they  came  and  went  like  the 
hedges  that  flitted  past  the  windows,  and  that, 
drowned  in  the  Lethe  of  my  discontent,  I  took 
no  heed  of  any  thing. 

As  the  day  waned  we  drew  near  London, 
and,  toward  twilight,  came  upon  gas-lamps  and 
a  road  bordered  by  villas.  Presently  thfs  villas 
were  succeeded  by  long  rows  of  houses ;  by 
shop-windows  blazing  with  lights;  by  streets 
crowded,  noisy,  narrow,  and  alive  with  trafiic. 
Then  we  turned  sharply  down  a  by-street,  dived 
under  an  archway,  clattered  into  a  gloomy  yard, 
and  were  at  the  end  of  our  journey. 

The  passengers  alighted,  and  were  met  by 
those  who  awaited  them.  I  also  got  out  and 
looked  anxiously  around,  expecting  Goody.  But 
no  Goody  was  there.  Bewildered  by  the  un- 
usual noise  and  bustle  of  the  place,  I  wandered 
to  and  fro,  scanning  every  countenance,  and 
recognizing  none.  Then  the  luggage  was  un- 
laden, and  each  passenger  claimed  his  own. 
When  my  box  was  handed  down,  I  sat  on  it 
and  waited  wearily.  One  by  one,  my  fellow- 
travelers  then  dispersed  and  went  away ;  and 
only  the  empty  coach,  the  smoking  horses,  and 
the  busy  ostlers  remained. 

It  was  now  quite  dark,  and  a  searching  wind 
came  blowing  through  the  archway.  No  one 
looked  at  me ;  no  one  spoke  to  me  —  save  once, 
when  the  coachman  bustled  past,  a  mountain 
of  coats  and  capes,  and  gave  me  a  rough  "  good 
night."     Shivering,  I  sat  perched  upon  my  box, 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


45 


like  the  dwarf  in  Mrs.  Shelley's  story,  and 
watched  the  stable-boys  running  to  and  fro  with 
their  lanterns,  the  grooms  rubbing  down  the 
horses,  and  the  chamber-maids  flitting  along  the 
wooden  galleries  above.  Surely  Goody  had 
mistaken  the  hour,  and  would  be  here  present- 
ly !  Could  it  be  possible  that  my  aunt's  letter 
had  never  been  delivered  ?  What  should  I  do, 
if  no  one  came  to  fetch  me  home  ? 

Whilst  I  was  turning  these  questions  over  in 
my  mind,  and  striving  hard  to- be  brave  and 
hopeful,  an  old  man  came  hobbling  across  the 
yard,  and  peered  curiously  into  my  face.  He 
was  the  oddest,  driest,  dustiest  little  old  man  I 
ever  saw ;  and  which  was  strangest  of  all,  had 
a  boot  drawn  up  on  each  arm  and  slippers  on 
his  feet,  so  that  he  looked  as  if  his  legs  were  in 
the  wrong  place. 

*'  To  be  left  till  called  for  ?"  said  he,  in  a 
hoarse  interrogative  whisper.  ^ 

Vaguely  conscious  of  his  meaning,  I  nodded ; 
whereat  he  desired  me  to  "come  on,"  and 
limped  away,  beckoning  mysteriously  with  his 
boots,  like  the  ghost  in  Hamlet.  Wondering, 
and  half  unwilling,  I  followed  him  to  a  little 
open  doorway  under  the  foot  of  the  great  wood- 
en staircase.  On  the  threshold  of  this  place  I 
shrank  back,  and  hesitated.  I  had  fancied  that 
he  was  taking  me  to  some  room  where  Goody 
was  waiting ;  but  this  was  a  mere  den,  filled, 
like  a  cobbler's  stall,  with  rows  of  boots  and 
shoes,  and  lit  by  a  rushlight  in  a  bottle. 

"  Come  in,"  said  he  in  the  same  tone,  half- 
growl,  half-whisper.  "  Come  in.  Don't  be 
afeard." 

Saying  which,  he  crouched  down  on  a  box, 
and  pointed  with  the  toe  of  the  right  boot  at  a 
wooden  stool  in  the  corner. 

Somewhat  reassured  by  this  invitation,  I 
ventured  in  and  sat  where  he  directed.  A  long 
silence  followed,  during  which  I  balanced  my- 
self on  the  edge  of  the  stool ;  gazed  curiously 
at  the  shelves  all  laden  with  boots  and  shoes, 
old  bottles,  blacking-brushes,  and  broken  can- 
dlesticks ;  and  now  and  then  stole  a  side  glance 
at  my  entertainer. 

"  It's  a  queep  place,  an't  it  ?"  he  observed, 
resting  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  and  rocking 
himself  slowly  to  and  fro.  "  Better  to  wait  in 
than  the  yard  ;  but  a  queer  place  to  live  in.  A 
queer  place  to  live  in." 

The  position  in  which  he  was  now  sitting  and 
the  action  by  which  it  was  accompanied,  pro- 
jected so  hideous  and  grotesque  a  four-legged 
shadow  on  the  opposite  wall,  that  for  some 
seconds  I  could  only  sit  and  stare  at  it,  like  one 
fascinated. 

"  Do  you  live  here,  sir  ?"  I  asked,  presently. 
It  was  the  first  time  I  had  spoken,  and,  despite 
my  politeness,  my  voice  trembled. 

"  Live  here  1"  he  echoed.  "Ay.  All  day  — 
every  day.     From  year's  end  to  year's  end." 

I  was  more  amazed  than  ever,  and,  not 
knowing  what  to  say  next,  looked  from  him  to 
his  shadow,  and  thence  up  to  the  inverted  stairs 
overhead,  thick-set  with  cobwebs  and  studded 
with  rusty  nails. 

"  But  I  don't  sleep  here,"  said  he,  after  an- 
other pause.     *'  I  sleep  in  the  stables." 

To  which  I  replied  timidly,  that  I  was  glad  to 
hear  it ;   and  again  the  conversation  dropped. 

The  silence  this  time  was  so  prolonged  that  I 


twice  heard  a  neighboring  clock  chime  the  quar- 
ters ;  and  still  the  wind  moaned  drearily ;  and 
still  horses,  and  ostlers,  and  travelers  came  and 
went  in  the  yard  without,  and  busy  footsteps 
passed  up  and  down  the  stairs  above  our  heads, 
over  and  over  again.  Feeling  at  length  desper- 
ately tired  and  sleepy,  I  fell  to  counting  the 
boots  and  shoes  to  keep  myself  awake.  I  count- 
ed them  from  left  to  right — then  from  right  to 
left  —  then  took  each  alternate  one,  and  went 
backward  for  the  rest,  and  only  grew  more 
drowsy  than  ever  for  my  pains. 

"  You're  looking  at  ^Aem,"  said  the  little  old 
man,  suddenly.  "  There's  lots  of  'em,  an't 
there?    Lot's  of 'em." 

"  Ye — es,  sir,"  I  faltered,  somewhat  startled 
to  find  that  he  had  been  watching  riie.  "A 
great  many." 

"  Twenty-seven  pair,"  said  he  reflectively. 
*'  Twenty-seven  pair,  not  counting  the  odd  Hes- 
sian belonging  to  number  thirteen  with  the 
gout." 

Greatly  perplexed  by  this  observation,  I  hesi- 
tated, wondered,  and  at  last  suggested  that  he 
surely  possessed  more  than  he  wanted  of  these 
useful  articles, 

"Oh,  you  think  they're  all  mine,  do  you?" 
croaked  he,  shifting  quickly  round,  and  peering 
at  me  again  from  beneath  a  pair  of  bushy  white 
eyebrows.  "  Who  d'ye  suppose  I  am,  eh  ? 
Who  d'ye  suppose  I  am  ?" 

I  shook  my  head  doubtfully. 

"I  'm  Boots,"  said  he,  striking  himself  im- 
pressively on  the  breast  with  the  heels  of  the 
pair  which  still  remained  on  his  arms.  "  Boots  " 
— and  immediately  tucked  up  his  legs,  and  sat 
tailor-wise  on  the  box. 

Utterly  discomposed  and  overwhelmed  by 
this  tremendous  revelation,  I  sat  with  parted 
lips  and  stared  at  him  breathlessly.  Boots ! 
Boots  incarnate  !  Good  Heavens,  was  he  mad, 
and  could  it  be  his  propensity  to  wear  Welling- 
tons as  other  folks  wear  gloves  ? 

"  I've  lived  here,  man  and  boy,  going  over 
sixty  year,"  continued  he.  "  I  was  a  young 
chap  when  I  first  came.  They  picked  me  out  of 
the  gutter,  and  made  Boots  of  me ;  and  Boots 
I've  been  ever  since." 

I  began  fervently  to  wish  myself  out  in  the 
yard  again. 

"  The  place  has  changed  names  and  masters 
more  than  once  all  that  time,"  he  went  on ;  talk- 
ing, indeed,  rather  to  himself  than  me.  "  But 
I  belong  to  it,  like  the  sign  outside,  or  the  big 
clock  on  the  stairs.  Blue  Boar,  or  Red  Lion, 
or  AVhite  Horse,  it's  all  the  same  to  me.  I'm  a 
part  of  it ;  and  somehow,  I  seem  to  fancy  that 
so  long  as  the  old  house  holds  together,  I  shall 
hold  with  it." 

He  fell  musing  at  this,  and  gazed  at  the  boots 
and  shoes  for  a  long  time  without  speaking. 

"  See  them,  now,"  he  said  at  length.  "  See 
them.  They've  been  my  business,  my  compan- 
ions, my  amusement  these  sixty  year  and  more. 
You'd  never  guess  the  stories  they  tell  me,  or 
the  news  I  pick  out  of  'em.  Shut  me  up  from 
the  light  of  day  and  give  me  only  these,  and  I'll 
tell  you  the  changes  in  the  fashion,  the  sgason 
of  the  yelR",  and  the  state  of  the  weather." 

Finding  that  he  looked  to  me  for  a  reply,  I 
ventured  to  inquire  if  he  always  had*  so  many 
as  seven  and  twenty  pairs. 


46 


BARBARA'S   HISTORY. 


"Sometimes  more,"  said  he  briskly,  "some- 
times less.  It  depends  on  the  time  of  the  year 
and  the  state  of  the  markets.  Twenty  pair  a 
day  is  the  average  I  make  of  it,  my  dear. 
Twenty  pair  a  day." ^ 

I  made  up  my  mind  that  he  was  very  mad 
indeed. 

"Look  here,  now,"  he  continued,  untucking 
his  legs,  and  getting  up  to  hunt  for  a  fragment 
of  old  slate  and  a  morsel  of  chalk,  which  lay  with 
a  heap  of  other  rubbish  on  an  upper  shelf  — 
"  look  here.  Twenty  pair  a  day,  counting  seven 
days  to  the  week,  and  fifty-two  weeks  to  the 
year,  and  letting  leap-years  alone,  makes  just 
four  hundred  and  thirty-six  thousand,  eight 
hundred  pair  in  sixty  years.     Think  of  that! 

Four  hundred  and  thirty-six  thous I've  a 

bad  head  for  most  things — 'specially  for  figures 
—  but  I've  done  it  hundreds  of  times,  and  it 
always  comes  to  the  same.  It's  right.  I  know 
it's  right." 

"  That  is  a  great  many,  sir,  for  one  person," 
I  observed  nervously. 

"  Ay,  a  great  many.  Sometimes  I  wonder  if 
I  shall  live  to  make  it  five  hundred  thousand, 
and  then  I  think  I'd  like  to  have  them  write  it 
up  on  my  gravestone,  for  the  queerness  of  it. 
Four  hundred  and  thirty-six  thousand,  eight 
hundred,  in  sixty  year !" 

With  this  he  again  began  rocking  himself 
backward  and  forward,  and  fell  into  the  old 
reverie.  And  still  the  wind  howled,  and  the 
footfalls  echoed,  and  I  sat  staring  at  him  by  the 
light  of  the  flickering  rushlight.  By  and  by  a 
bell  rang  close  outside  the  door  of  the  den — a 
shrill,  impatient  bell,  with  a  vixenish  tongue — 
and  a  voice  somewhere  in  the  galleries  cried 
"Boots!" 

My  companion  shook  his  head,  and  got  up 
wearily. 

"  That's  it !"  he  growled.  "  That's  it.  Noth- 
ing  but  ring,  ring,  ring,  from  morning  till 
night,  and  from  night  till  morning.  Keep  you 
there,  little  girl.     I'll  be  back  presently." 

And  so,  with  his  head  bent  forward  and  his 
arms  crossed  behind,  he  shambled  away,  look- 
ing like  a  man  who  had  folded  his  legs  over  his 
back,  and  was  walking  off  on  his  hands. 

Left  alone  now,  and  feeling  very  cold  and 
tired,  I  shut  the  door,  and  curled  myself  upon 
the  box  where  he  had  been  sitting.  Again  the 
clock  struck — this  time  four  quarters,  and  then 
nine  strokes  for  the  hour.  Nine  o'clock,  and  the 
coach  came  in  at  half-past  seven  !  Was  I  quite 
forgotten,  and  must  I  remain  all  night  in  this 
strange  place  ?  What  would  my  aunt  say,  could 
she  but  see  me  now  ?  Would  the  httle  old  man 
give  me  shelter,  and  let  me  sleep  there  with  the 
boots  and  shoes  while  he  went  to  bed  in  the 
stables  ?  How  should  I  find  my  way  home  in 
the  morning  ?  And  what  would  Goody  do,  when 
she  found  that  I  had  been  left  in  this  plight 
all  the  dreary  night  ?  Despite  my  fortitude,  I 
could  not  forbear  a  few  self-pitying  tears.  Then 
my  thoughts  wandered  and  my  eyelids  grew 
heavy,  and  I  fell  into  an  uneasy  sleep,  during 
which  I  dreamed  that  I  was  once  more  in  the 
coach  traveling  to  London ;  the  only  difference 
being  that  Goody  was  driving,  and  th&t  we  were 
drawn  by  a  team  of  four  hundred  and  thirty- 
six  thousand  pairs  of  polished  Wellingtons. 

I  can  not  tell  how  long  I  slept.     It  may  have 


been  more  than  an  hour,  or  it  may  have  been 
but  a  few  moments.  Deep  as  my  slumber  was, 
however,  the  flashing  of  a  sudden  light  across 
my  eyes  awoke  me. 

"  Barbara,"  said  a  quick  distinct  voice,  close 
beside  me.     "  Barbara  !" 

Struggling  drowsily  upright,  I  looked  round 
and  saw  my  father.  He  had  his  hat  on,  and  a 
large  cloak  with  a  fur  collar  and  clasp.  A  waiter 
stood  behind  him  with  a  candle,  and  Boots  was 
peeping  in  at  the  door.  At  first  I  could  scarcely 
recollect  where  I  was ;  but  no  sooner  did  my 
father  speak  again  than  it  all  flashed  back  upon 
my  memory. 

"I  am  willing,  of  course,"  said  he,  in  his  old 
imperative  tone,  "  to  pay  any  thing  you  may 
demand  for  the — the  accommodation  you  have 
afforded  her.     Faugh  !  what  a  hole  !" 

"Very  sorry,  sir,"  said  the  waiter,  obsequi- 
ously. "Had  no  idea  the  young  lady  was  here 
at  all,  sir.  All  Boots's  doing,  sir — not  our  fault, 
I  assure  you." 

"Boots,  Boots,  indeed!"  echoed  my  father, 
angrily.     "  Pshaw,  where  is  the  fellow  ?     I'll 

teg,ch  him  to Ho,  you're  there,  are  you, 

sirrah  ?  Tell  me  how  you  dared  to  bring  any 
gentleman's  child  into  such  a  filthy  cellar  as 
this  ?" 

Boots  looked  down  and  made  no  reply,  which 
only  irritated  my  father  the  more. 

"  You  may  be  thankful,"  said  he,  "  that  I 
don't  complain  of  this  to  your  master.  Stand 
out  of  my  way  !" 

Saying  which,  he  grasped  me  by  the  arm  and 
dragged  me  across  the  yard,  to  where  a  hack- 
ney coach  was  waiting  in  the  shelter  of  the 
archway.  Sick  Avith  terror  and  cold,  I  shrank 
into  a  corner  of  the  vehicle,  Avhile  my  father, 
still  storming  at  the  apologetic  waiter,  flung 
himself  into  the  opposite  corner,  and  bade  the 
coachman  drive  on. 

The  wind  had  now  brought  rain  with  it,  and 
the  streets  were  wet  and  empty.  Scarcely  a 
shop  was  open,  and  scarcely  a  creature  stirring. 
Sitting  there  opposite  my  father  and  feeling  that 
I  dreaded  him  more  than  ever,  I  gazed  out  at 
the  dreary  night,  and  dared  not  speak  or  stir. 
We  had  a  long,  long  distance  to  go,  and  I  re- 
member as  well  as  if  it  were  yesterday,  how  we 
traversed  street  after  street ;  how  the  water 
stood  in  dark  pools  on  the  pavement ;  how  we 
crossed  a  bridge  where  the  rain  was  misting 
down  upon  the  river ;  and  how  we  by  and  by 
entered  a  well-known  road,  and  drew  up  before 
that  solitary  house  which  was  once  more  to  be 
my  home.  There  were  the  elm-trees,  dark  and 
gaunt  as  ever,  and  there  was  the  mournful  ivy 
mantling  half  the  basement.  There,  too,  as  we 
stopped  before  the  gate,  was  dear  old  Goody, 
shading  the  light  with  her  hand,  and  peering 
out  at  the  first  sound  of  our  wheels  ! 

Scrambling  down  as  best  I  could  while  my 
father  was  settling  with  the  driver,  I  threw  my- 
self into  her  arms. 

"  My  lamb,  my  darling !"  she  cried,  brokenly, 
and  covered  my  face  with  tears  and  kisses. 

While  I  was  yet  clinging  to  her  and  she  to 
me,  my  father  came  in.  He  glanced  angrily  at 
us  both,  and  bit  his  lip, 

"  Stop  that  noise,  Beever,  and  put  the  child 
to  bed,"  said  he,  harshly :  and  so  brushed  past, 
and  went  to  his  room. 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


47 


But  Goody,  instead  of  doing  any  such  thing, 
took  me  down  to  the  kitchen,  where  there  was 
a  cheerful  fire  blazing  in  the  grate,  and  a  little 
table  spread  for  supper.  Here  she  chafed  my 
cold  hands,  and  ray  still  colder  feet — took  off 
my  cloak  and  bonnet  —  and,  though  weeping 
abundantly  herself,  entreated  me  not  to  cry. 

"  For  it's  no  use  taking  on,  my  deary !"  said 
she.  "  It's  a  weary  world,  and  troubles  come 
to  the  young  as  well  as  the  old ;  but  what's 
God's  will  is  surely  for  the  best.  It's  hard  al- 
ways to  believe  that,  darling ;  but  it's  no  use 
taking  on.  Try  to  eat  a  little  bit  of  chicken, 
my  lamb — come,  you're  warmer,  now  !" 

Though  very  faint  indeed,  I  was  not  hungry, 
and  had  to  be  persuaded  and  petted  a  great  deal 
before  I  could  make  up  my  mind  to  taste  any 
thing.  Having  once  begun,  however,  I  felt  bet- 
ter ;  and  then  Goody  brought  out  a  bottle  with 
some  brandy  in  it,  and  gave  me  a  little  ;ft'arm 
brandy  and  water,  which  refreshed  and  strength- 
ened me  greatly.  This  done,  I  went  and  sat  on 
her  lap  as  I  used  to  do  in  the  old  time  before  I 
went  away,  and  laid  my  head  down  on  her 
shoulder.  Much  to  my  surprise,  Goody  once 
again  broke  out  into  a  passion  of  sobs,  clasped 
me  to  her  bosom,  and  began  rocking  me  to  and 
fro,  to  and  fro,  like  one  in  deep  distress. 

"  Don't  cry  so.  Goody,"  I  whispered,  put- 
ting my  arms  about  her  neck.  "Pray  don't 
cry  so  !" 

"  I  can't  help  it,  my  deary — I  can't  help  it, 
when  it  comes  across  me,"  she  moaned.  "  And 
you'll  miss  her  so  !     You'll  miss  her  !" 

"  I  shall  miss  her  every  day  of  my  life,"  said 
I,  struggling  hard  now  to  keep  down  my  own 
tears.  "  She  was  so  kind  to  me,  Goody ;  and  I 
loved  her  so  dearly !" 

■'*  Nay,  she  was  not  always  so  kind  to  you  as 
she  might  have  been  ;  but  she  meant  no  harm 
by  it,  and  you're  a  dear  laml>  to  remember  her 
kindly,"  sobbed  Goody.  "  But  it's  been  sud- 
den— too  sudden,  my  deary,  for  me  to  know 
how  to  bear  it  yet !" 

"  I  never  knew  a  word  of  it  till  yesterday 
morning,"  cried  I,  fairly  breaking  down.    "  Not 

a  word,  and — and  I  was  so  happy,  and " 

"  Yesterday  morning  ?"  repeated  Goody. 
"  Why,  it  never  happened  till  close  upon  eleven 
last  night  !" 

Struck  by  a  quick  conviction  that  she  was 
lamenting  another  grief  than  mine,  I  lifted  my 
head  from  her  shoulder,  and  looked  her  in  the 
face. 

"  Oh,   Goody,"   I  faltered,   "  what    do  you 
mean  ?     Is  any  thing  the  matter  ?" 
She  turned  a  startled  face  upon  me. 
"  What,"  said  she,  breathlessly,  "  don't  you 
know  ?     Didn't  he — didn't  the  master  tell  you 
as  you  came  along  ?" 

"Nothing — he  told  me  nothing!" 

"  Jessie — your  sister — your  poor,  dear,  sister 

Jessie " 

"  Oh,  Goody,  what  of  her  ?" 
*'  Dead,   my  dear  ! — dead  and  gone  ! — dead 
since  this  time  last  night !" 

And  she  wrung  her  hands,  and  lifted  up  her 
voice,  and  lamented  again  as  a  mother  might 
lament  for  her  child ! 

Chilled  and  horror-stricken,  I  looked  at  her, 
and  could  neither  weep  nor  speak. 

"  She  was  well  in  the  morning,"  continued 
Goody,   "well,  and  gay,  and  pretty  as   ever! 


She  bnly  suffered  a  few  hours.  It  was  soon 
over,  and  she  died  in  my  arms — in  my  arms,  the 
child  that  I  had  nursed  at  her  birth,  and  loved 

oh  !  I  never  knew  how'  I  loved  her  till 

now  !  God  help  us  all,  deary !  God  help  and 
spare  us !" 

"  What  did  she  die  of,  Goody  ?"  I  whispered, 
shudderingly. 

"  Cholera— cholera,  my  darling !" 
I  had  never  heard  the  word  before — I  could 
not  tell  what  it  meant — I  only  knew  that  my 
sister  Jessie  was  dead.  Dead  !  I  repeated  the 
word  vaguely  over  and  over  again,  and  could 
not  bring  myself  to  reahze  its  meaning.  I  felt 
as  if  a  heavy  hand  were  laid  upon  my  heart. 
My  eyes  burned,  and  my  tongue  was  dry.  1 
wondered  why  I  could  not  weep  like  Goody.  A 
thousand  things  flashed  through  my  mind  — 
things  of  long  ago ;  words  that  she  had  spoken ; 
gestures,  trifles,  traits  forgotten  till  this  mo- 
ment. Poor  Jessie ! — dead. 
"  And  papa  ?"  I  faltered. 
"  He  was  out,"  said  Goody,  wiping  her  eyes 
with  her  apron,  and  speaking  somewhat  bit- 
terly. "  He  went  out  early,  to  dine  at  Rich- 
mond and  spend  the  day  in  the  country.  I  had 
no  one  to  send  after  him,  and  could  not  tell 
where  he  was  to  be  found.  When  he  came 
home  at  night,  little  Jessie  was  gone.  He  was 
sadly  shocked  at  first;  and  walked  about  his 
room  for  a  long  time  before  he  went  to  bed. 
This  morning  he  asked  to  see  her,  and  then  he 
took  Hilda  on  his  knee,  and  kissed  and  cried 

over  her.     Oh  !  if  it  had  been  Hilda " 

She  checked  herself,  and  our  eyes  met. 
After  this  we  sat  for  some  time  without  speak- 
ing —  I  with  my  cheek  laid  against  hers,  and 
she  with  her  arms  clasped  lovingly  about  me. 
By  and  by,  seeing  the  fire  was  almost  out,  she 
took  me  by  the  hand,  and  led  me  up  to  bed. 
We  stopped  at  the  docg:  of  a  room  on  the  first 
floor,  two  stories  lower  than  the  bedroom  which 
used  to  be  ours. 

"  Hilda  is  here,"  she  whispered,  with  her  fin- 
ger to  her  hp.  "  I  sat  with  her  to-night  till 
she  fell  asleep,  and  we  must  try  not  to  wake 
her.  She  is  worn  out  with  sorrow,  poor  dar- 
ling— they  loved  each  other  so  dearly  !" 

I  had  not  seen  Hilda  for  a  w  hole  year.  I  had 
left  home  without  even  bidding  her  farewell, 
and  I  returned  to  find  her  as  I  had  left  her — 
sleeping.  Except  that  her  face  wore  an  ex- 
pression of  suffering  which  I  had  never  seen 
there  before,  she  seemed  but  little  changed. 
Her  cheek  was  flushed  and  feverish,  and  the 
rich  tresses  of  her  hair  lay  in  heavy  masses  over 
her  neck  and  arms.  Bending  down  more  closely, 
I  saw  that  her  eyelashes  were  still  wet,  and  her 
pillow  stained  with  tears.  All  at  once,  she 
awoke,  looked  at  me  flxedly,  half-fearfuUy,  and 
murmured — "  Barbara !" 

I  hung  over  her  with  clasped  hands — with 
streaming  eyes — with  I  know  not  what  prayer- 
ful longing  in  my  voice. 

"  Oh,  Hilda  !"  I  cried,  "  love  me,  dear  !  Love 
me  a  little  1  we  are  bpth  so  lonely !" 

A  languid  smile  flitted  across  her  lips.  *  She 
opened  her  arms  to  me,  and,  clasping  me  con- 
vulsively round  the  neck,  sobbed  as  if  her  heart 
would  break. 

That  night,  for  the  first  time  in  our  lives,  we 
slept  in  the  same  bed,  each  with  an  arm  about 
the  other's  neck. 


48 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY 


CHAPTER  XYI. 


"  Earth  to  earth,  ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust " 
—  mournful  and  eternal  words  which  find  an 
echo  in  all  human  hearts,  and  are  borne  to  us, 
sighing,  on  every  breath  we  breathe,  from  the 
cradle  to  the  grave  !  As  they  had  been  spoken, 
years  ago,  over  our  lost  mother,  so  were  they 
spoken  over  our  sister.  .  I  remernber  all  the 
circumstances  of  the  funeral  with  painful  dis- 
tinctness to  this  day — the  mutes  standing  at  the 
door ;  the  heavy  tread  of  the  bearers  on  the 
stairs ;  the  strange  silence  that  fell  upon  the 
house  when  all  were  gone  ;  the  unclosing  of  the 
shutters  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  sickening  glare 
of  the  sunset  as  it  streamed  once  again  into  the 
rooms.  The  day  after,  things  lapsed,  somehow, 
back  into  their  old  track.  My  father  went  to 
his  club :  and  Miss  Whymper  came,  as  usual, 
and  took  her  seat  at  the  top  of  the  schoolroom 
table. 

A  week,  a  fortnight,  a  month  went  by ;  and  I 
never  once  heard  of,  or  from,  my  aunt.  I  was 
too  deeply  shocked  at  first  by  what  had  happen- 
ed in  my  home  to  think  much  of  my  own  trou- 
bles ;  but  as  time  went  on,  and  these  impres- 
sions lost  somewhat  of  their  intensity,  all  the 
old  bitterness  came  back.  Sometimes  I  won- 
dered if  it  could  all  be  true  ;  and,  waking  from 
my  sleep  in  the  still  night-time,  asked-  myself 
whether  I  had  been  dreaming  ?  Then  flashed 
the  desolate  conviction — then  rose  the  burning 
tears — then,  slipping  softly  from  my  bed  in  the 
dim  starlight,  I  crept,  breathlessly,  to  a  certain 
drawer,  and  took  from  its  hiding-place  the  silver 
ring.  To  steal  back  with  it  to  my  bed  ;  to  lie 
with  it  pressed  against  my  lips  ;  to  place  it  on 
the  finger  where  he  placed  it ;  take  it  off  and 
kiss  it  twenty  times,  and  fall  asleep  at  last  in 
the  midst  of  murmuring  his  name,  was  all  the 
solace  I  had  left. 

As  for  Hilda,  she  was  herself  too  unhappy  to 
give  much  heed  to  me.  Gentler  and  more  affec- 
tionate than  of  old,  she  yet  cherished  a  grief 
that  refused  to  be  comforted.  I  soon  found 
that,  devote  myself  as  I  would,  the  one  place 
must  yet  remain  vacant  in  her  life.  Jessie  had 
been  her  second  self,  her  companion,  confidante, 
sister,  friend.  She  lamented  her.  with  a  pas- 
sionate intensityj  of  which  childhood  alone  is 
capable,  and,  so  lamenting,  lost  sleep,  appetite, 
and  strength.  In  certain  imperious  natures, 
sorrow  wears  the  aspect  of  despair  and  con- 
sumes like  a  wasting  fire.  So  it  was  with  Hilda. 
She  spent  her  nights  in  weeping,  and  her  days 
in  a  hopeless  apathy,  from  which  no  effort  of 
ours  availed  to  rouse  her. 

Thus  brooding  away  the  weary  weeks,  she 
grew  daily  thinner,  paler,  and  more  unUke  her 
former  self. 

One  afternoon,  when  Miss  Whymper  had  gone 
away  and  we  were  alone  in  the  school-room,  my 
father  suddenly  came  in,  followed  by  a  strange 
gentleman.  I  was  putting  away  the  books,  and 
Hilda .  was  lying  on  a  couch  beside  'the  open 
window,  pale  and  weary,  and  half-asleep.  The 
gentleman  went  straight  to  the  couch ;  drew  a 
chair  quite  close  beside  her ;  and  said,  turning 
to  my  father — 

'*  This,  I  presume,  Mr.  Churchill,  is  our  young 
friend — our,  ahem  '.—valetudinarian  ?" 


To  which  my  father  replied,  "  Yes,  Sir  An- 
drew, the  same  ;"  and  sat  down  likewise. 

Sir  Andrew  was  a  bulky  man,  tall  and  stout, 
with  a  forest  of  gray  hair,  a  knobby  red  nose  and 
a  voice  husky,  oleaginous,  mellowed  by  port  and 
maturity,  like  a  Stilton  cheese.  In  the  brief  si- 
lence that  followed,  he  brought  out  a  heavy  gold 
snuff-box,  and,  with  much  solemnity,  partook  of 
three  pinches.  Presently  he  laid  his  hand  on 
Hilda's  little  wrist,  felt  her  pulse,  and  nodded  to 
himself  several  times. 

"  Well,  Sir  Andrew,"  said  my  father  anxiously, 
"well?" 

The  physician  drew  a  long  breath  through  his 
teeth,  and  tapped  the  lid  of  the  snuff-box  with 
his  knuckles. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Churchill,"  said  he  deliberately, 
"  we  ^  are,  ahem  !  —  debiUtated  —  considerably 
debilitated.  We  evince  an  absence  of  that  vis 
anima  which  is  so  desirable  in  youth  —  our 
pulse  is  intermittent  —  our  nerves  are  unstrung 

—  we  —  in  short,  we  are  not  absolutely  ill ;  but 

—  but  we  are  by  no  means  absolutely  well." 

"  And  the  remedy,  sir  ?"  suggested  my  father, 
impatiently.     "  The  remedy." 

"  Tonics ;  port  wine ;  change  of  air ;  amuse- 
ment." 

My  father  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  clinked 
the  money  in  his  pockets. 

"  In  point  of  fact,"  continued  Sir  Andrew, 
reflectively,  "  I  should  say —  that  is,  Mr.  Church- 
ill, if  I  may  offer  a  suggestion  ?" 

*'  Offer  fifty — fifty,  if  you  please.  Sir  Andrew," 
said  my  father. 

"  Well,  then,  I  should  say  that  mineral  baths 

—  Kissengen,  for  instance,  or  Ems  —  Avould  do 
more  for  our  young  friend  than  any  course  of 
medical  treatment  whatever.  It  is  the  nervous 
system  that  wants  bracing,  Mr.  Churchill  —  the 
ner-vous  sys-tem." 

Saying  which,  he  closed  the  snuff-box  with  a 
click,  glanced  again  at  his  watch,  patted  Hilda 
patronizingly  on  the  head,  and  rose  to  take  his 
leave. 

"  Mr.  Churchill,"  said  he,  "  I  attend  you." 

Whereat  my  father  ceremoniously  ushered  him 
from  the  room,  and  we  heard  his  boots  creak 
ponderously  all  the  way  down-stairs. 

The  next  morning,  when  we  were  summoned, 
as  usual,  to  the  school-room,  a  letter  addressed 
to  Miss  Whymper  was  found  lying  on  the  table. 
I  recognized  my  father's  large  armorial  seal  and 
careless  superscription,  and,  smitten  with  an 
ahguished  recollection  of  how  and  when  I  had 
last  seen  a  similar  missive,  could  scarce  restrain 
my  tears.  I  watched  her  break  the  seal  —  I 
watched  her  as  she  read  —  I  translated  that  al- . 
most  imperceptible  expression  of  surprise  and 
disappointment,  and  the  quick  glance  which 
reverted  more  than  once  to  Hilda's  downcast 
face. 

"  Hilda  is  to  be  sent  away,"  thought  I,  sadly  ; 
as  Miss  Whymper  put  the  letter  in  her  pocket, 
and  said,  in  the  same  words  that  she  had  used 
every  morning  for  the  last  four  years  — 

"  Now  young  ladies,  if  you  please,  we  will  re- 
sume our  studies." 

I  had  guessed  the  truth,  though  not  all  the 
truth ;  as  I  discovered  before  the  day  was  out 
Miss  Whymper  was  to  be  dismissed,  and  not  only 
was  Hilda  to  be  sent  away  for  change  of  air,  but 
I  was  to  be  sent  with  her.     Our  destination 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


49 


was  not  yet  decided  upon ;  but  that  it  would  be 
somewhere  abroad  was  certain.  In  the  mean 
time  my  father  had  set  inquiries  afoot,  and  au- 
thorized Goody  to  make  active  preparations  for 
our  departure.  Hilda  received  this  news  with 
indifference  —  I,  with  mingled  pain  and  pleas- 
ure —  Goody,  with  unspeakable  despair. 

"  Was  it  not  enough,"  said  she,  twenty  times 
a  day,  "  was  it  not  enough  to  lose  one  of  my 
darlings,  and  must  I  now  be  parted  from  the 
two  that  are  left  ?  May  be  I  shall  never  live  to 
see  either  of  you  again,  and,  sure,  if  you  were 
my  own  flesh  and  blood,  I  couldn't  love  you 
more !" 

In  reply  to  which,  I  consoled  her  as  well  as  I 
could,  and  promised  never  to  forget  her,  though 
I  should  be  a  dozen  years  away. 

Thus  many  days  went  by,  and  the  routine  of 
our  life  was  interrupted  by  all  kinds  of  novel 
cares  and  occupations.  Our  wardrobes,  ;syhich 
were  always  scanty  enough,  had  to  be  almost 
entirely  renewed ;  and  two  young  women  were 
kept  constantly  at  work  in  an  upper  room,  mak- 
ing cloaks,  dresses,  and  other  necessaries,  all  of 
which  had,  every  now  and  then,  to  be  fitted, 
and  made  the  subject  of  discussion.  Our  stud- 
ies, at  the  same  time,  were  no  longer  enforced 
with  their  accustomed  regularity,  and,  at  the  ex- 
piration of  a  week  or  so,  Miss  Whymper  took  her 
final  leave.  We  were  called  down,  I  remember, 
to  papa's  room,  to  bid  her  good-by.  Although  it 
was  now  mid-summer  and  there  was  no  fire,  my 
father  was  standing,  as  usual,  in  the  middle  of 
the  rug,  with  his  back  to  the  grate.  Miss 
Whymper  was  consigning  some  three  or  four 
crisp  bank-notes  to  the  capacious  recesses  of  a 
large  red  pocket-book. 

"  I  have  been  careful,  madam,"  said  my 
father,  with  that  air  of  magnificent  politeness 
which  he  assumed  at  pleasure,  "  to  keep  a  mem- 
orandum of  the  numbers  of  the  notes.  You 
will,  therefore,  apply  to  me,  in  case  of  acci- 
dent." 

Miss  Whymper,  with  her  head  on  one  side, 
thanked  Mr.  Churchill  for  his  "  courteous  con- 
sideration." 

"And  should  any  thing  occur  to  frustrate  the 
success  of  those  views  which  I  at  present  en- 
tertain with  regard  to  the  education  of  my 
daughters,"  continued  he,  "  I  trust  that  I  may 
again  be  so  fortunate,  madam,  as  to  secure  your 
invaluable  cooperation." 

Miss  Whymper  replied  by  a  profound  court- 
esy. 

"  At  the  close  of  a  connection,"  said  she, 
*'  which  I  think  I  may,  without  undue  temerity, 
characterize  as  unusually  productive  of  satisfac- 
tion to  all  parties  concerned  —  may  I  say  to  all 
parties,  Mr.  Churchill  ?" 

"  Madam,"  replied  my  father,  with  a  glance 
at  his  watch,  "  you  may." 

"And  which,"  pursued  Miss  Whymper,  all 
on  one  subdued  note,  and  as  if  she  were  re- 

f (eating  every  word  by  heart,  "has  afforded  me 
rom  first  to  last  such  a  degree  of  interest  as  I 
do  not  remember  to  have  ever  previously  en- 
tertained throughout  the  course  of  a  long  edu- 
cational experience  —  at  the  close,  I  beg  to  re- 
peat, of  so  agreeable  an  intercourse,  have  I 
Mr.  Churchill's  permission  to  present  my  dear 
young  friends  with  these  trifling  evidences  of 
my  regard  ?" 


Saying  which,  she  produced  two  very  small 
books  from  the  depths  of  her  reticule ;  while  my 
father,  more  grandly  than  ever,  protested  that 
she  did  us  both  infinite  honor,  and  desired  us  to 
thank  Miss  Whymper  for  her  kindness.  Where-  . 
at  Miss  Whymper  bestowed  on  Hilda  a  frosty 
kiss,  and  a  copy  of  Joyce's  "  Scientific  Dia- 
logues;" on  me  a  still  frostier  kiss,  and  Mrs. 
Marcet's  "  Conversations  on  Chemistry ;"  hoped 
that  we  might  be  industrious  and  happy,  and 
that  neither  our  morals  nor  our  digestive  organs 
might  be  injuriously  affected  by  foreign  in- 
fluences ;  and  so,  being  moved  to  an  unusual 
display  of  emotion,  applied  the  corner  of  her 
pocket  handkerchief  to  her  left  eye,  and  wiped 
away  an  imaginary  tear.  My  father  than  rang 
the  bell ;  accompanied  her  as  far  as  the  study- 
door  ;  bowed  his  stateliest  bow ;  wished  her 
"  a  very  good  morning;"  and  so  she  followed 
Goody  down  the  stairs,  and  we  saw  Miss  Whym- 
per no  more. 

Our  fate  was  decided  by  a  foreign  letter  which 
arrived  the  next  morning.  We  were  to  be  re-, 
ceived  in  a  large  collegiate  school  at  Zollenstrasse, 
and  were  to  start  in  two  days,  so  as  to  arrive  at 
the  beginning  of  the  July  term.  Except  the 
Zollenstrasse  was  somewhere  in  Germany,  and 
that  Germany,  though  it  seemed  near  enough  on 
the  map,  lay  a  long  way  off  across  the  sea,  I 
knew  nothing  further  of  our  destination. 


CHAPTER    XVn. 


Y    LAND   AND    SEA. 


My  father  went  with  us  himself  the  morning 
of  our  departure,  and  put  us  on  board  the 
steamer  by  which  we  were  to  be  conveyed  from 
London  to  Rotterdam.  The  bridges,  quays,  and 
floating  piers  were  all  alive  with  traffic.  The 
deck  of  the  steamer  swarmed  with  seamen,  * 
travelers,  and  porters.  Having  seen  our  lug- 
gage safely  stowed,  and  ascertained  the  situation 
of  our  berths,  my  father  handed  us  over  to  the 
care  of  the  captain,  who  not  only  promised  us 
his  special  protection  during  the  voyage,  but 
engaged,  on  landing,  to  consign  us  to  the  care 
of  one  Jonathan  Rose,  Esq.,  a  merchant  of  Rot- 
terdam with  whom  my  father  was  acquainted, 
and  to  whom  we  carried  a  letter  of  introduction. 
Presently  the  bell  rang,  and  warned  those  who 
were  not  passengers  to  leave  the  vessel.  My 
father  took  Hilda's  hands  in  both  of  his,  and, 
kissing  her  first  on  the  forehead  and  then  on 
the  mouth,  bade  her  get  well,  be  happy,  and 
profit  by  her  instructors.  To  me  he  only  said, 
"Good-by,  Barbara,"  touched  my  cheek  cold- 
ly with  his  lips,  turned  away,  and  hastened  on 
shore.  Then  the  gangway  was  removed ;  the 
moorings  were  loosened;  the  steamer  heaved 
slowly  round ;  the  quays  and  bystanders  seemed 
to  recede  behind  us ;  and  away  we  went,  past 
the  Custom-house  and  the  Tower,  and  the  crowd- 
ed masts,  which  clustered,  like  a  forest  of  bare 
larches,  down  the  midpath  of  the  river. 

The  day  was  fine,  and  for  some  hours  we  en- 
joyed it  intensely.  The  passengers  were  all 
kind  to  us.  Some  of  the  ladies  gave  us  fruit 
and  cakes ;  the  gentlemen  told  us  the  names  of 
the  places  that  we  passed ;  and  the  Captain, 
every  now  and  then,  came  up  and  asked  us  if 


50 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


we  meant  to  be  hungry  by  dinner-time.  Toward 
noon,  we  passed  the  red  lighthouse  at  the  Nore, 
and  stood  out  to  sea.  The  steamer  now  began 
to  roll ;  the  seagulls  darted  to  and  fro ;  and 
%  WQ  saw  a  shoal  of  porpoises  tumbling  on 
the  waves,  about  half  a  mile  ahead.  With 
these  sights  we  were  more  amused  than  ever ; 
till  presently  we  both  turned  ill  and  giddy,  and 
were  glad  to  be  carried  down  to  our  little  nar- 
row beds.  Of  this  part  of  the  journey  I  remem- 
ber only  that  I  lay  with  closed  eyes,  and  felt 
more  sick  and  miserable  than  I  had  ever  felt 
before  —  that,  in  the  midst  of  my  suffering,  I 
strove  every  now  and  then  to  say  a  consoling 
word  to  Hilda,  which  only  made  me  feel  worse  — 
that  the  day  seemed  as  long  as  ten,  and  was  fol- 
lowed by  a  weary  night,  lit  by  a  swinging  lamp, 
and  traversed  by  hideous  dreams  and  semi-con- 
scious wakings  —  that  the  morning  dawned 
grayly,  and  that,  by  and  by,  somebody  bade  me 
try  to  get  up,  for  we  were  in  smooth  water 
again.  We  then  got  up,  looking  both  very  pale, 
and  ventured  on  deck  to  breathe  the  fresh  air, 
and  have  a  peep  at  Rotterdam, 

The  passengers  were  all  claiming  their  luggage, 
and  the  boat  was  crowded  with  foreign  porters 
who  wore  ear-rings  and  red  caps,  and  gabbled  a 
strange  guttural  language  that  I  had  never  heard 
before.  Close  beside  us  lay  the  great  quays 
bordered  with  trees  and  lofty  houses ;  laden  with 
bales  of  goods ;  and  swarming  with  sailors  of 
all  nations.  Beyond  us  stretched  the  broad 
river,  crowded  with  merchant  vessels ;  and  all 
along  the  banks,  as  far  as  one  could  see,  an  end- 
less perspective  of  warehouses,  cranes,  masts, 
and  tapering  steeples.  The  strangeness  of  this 
scene,  and  the  confusion  of  tongues,  made  me 
so  nervous,  and  filled  me  with  such  a  desolate 
sense  of  exile,  that  when  a  little  old  gentleman 
presently  came  up  with  an  account  book  in  his 
hand,  and  a  pen  behind  his  ear,  and  asked  if 
^  we  were  not  going  to  land  with  the  rest,  I  could 
with  difficulty  frame  an  intelhgible  answer.  He 
then  looked  at  the  address  upon  our  boxes, 

"  Zollenstrasse  !"  he  exclaimed.  "  ZoUen- 
strasse  am  Main !  Why,  that  is  a  long  way 
from  here,  little  travelers !  Who  is  to  take 
care  of  you  across  the  country  ?" 

I  shook  my  head,  and  said  I  did  not  know. 

"  And  what  shall  you  do  when  you  get  there  ? 
Have  you  friends  in  the  Duchy  ?" 

Hilda  tossed  back  her  curls,  and  lifted  her 
dark  eyes  to  his  face. 

"  We  are  going  to  College,"  she  said,  proudly. 

"  Poor  children !  Have  you  no  parents,  that 
you  should  be  sent  so  far  from  home  ?" 

"  We  have  a  papa,"  replied  Hilda, 

The  stranger  shrugged  his  shoulders  compas- 
sionately, 

"  How  strange  !"  he  murmured,  "  Had  my 
children  lived  I  could  never  have  parted  from 
them  ;  and  yet  this  man  trusts  his  little  girls " 

"  Papa  is  not  a  man,"  interrupted  Hilda  in- 
dignantly,    "  He  is  a  gentleman." 

The  stranger,  with  a  melancholy  smile,  sat 
down  on  one  of  the  boxes,  and  took  her 
unwilling  hand  in  his. 

"  Just  what  I  should  have  supposed,  my 
dear,"  he  replied,  "  What  is  your  father's 
name  ?" 

"  Edmund  Churchill,  Esquire," 

"  Churchill !"  he  repeated,    "  Edmund  Church- 


ill !"  and  so  with  a  look  of  some  surprise,  took 
a  book  from  his  pocket,  and  began  hastily 
turning  over  the  leaves.  Stopping  presently, 
with  his  finger  on  one  particular  entry,  he 
said — 

"  I  know  your  father — at  least,  I  know  a  Mr. 
Edmund  Churchill,  of  London," 

"Then  perhaps  you  know  Mr,  Jonathan 
Bose  ?"     I  interposed  eagerly, 

"  I  believe  I  do.     What  of  him  ?" 

"  Only  that  we  are  to  give  him  this  letter ; 
and  the  Captain  has  promised  to  take  us  to  his 
house  by  and  by," 

Our  new  friend  put  out  his  hand  for  the  letter, 
and  broke  the  seal, 

"  The  Captain  may  spare  himself  that  trouble," 
he  said,     "  I  am  Jonathan  Bose." 

Before  we  had  well  recovered  the  surprise  of 
this  encounter,  he  had  glanced  rapidly  through 
the  contents  of  the  missive,  thrust  it  into  his 
pocket,  and  darted  off  in  search  of  the  Captain. 

A  huge  porter  then  shouldered  our  boxes ; 
and  Mr,  Jonathan  Bose,  who  was  quite  breath- 
less with  excitement,  gave  a  hand  to  each,  and 
hurried  us  along  the  quays.  He  was  delighted 
to  have  charge  of  us,  and  said  so  repeatedly  as 
we  went  along ;  interspesring  his  conversation, 
at  the  same  time,  with  scraps  of  information 
respecting  himself,  his  household,  and  the 
places  we  were  passing  on  the  way. 

"  This  river,"  said  he,  *'  is  the  Maas — my 
house  lies  yonder,  just  beside  that  large  India 
vessel  which  you  see  unlading  farther  on.  This 
building  belongs  to  the  East  India  Company. 
I  wish  you  could  stay  with  me  for  a  week,  my 
dears,  that  I  might  show  you  all  the  sights  of 
Rotterdam ;  but  your  father  desires  me  to  see 
you  off  again  to-morrow  morning.  Well,  well, 
this  afternoon,  at  least,  we  can  take  a  walk  and 
see  something  of  the  city.  I'll  be  sworn  you 
never  saw  so  many  bridges  in  one  place  before, 
did  you  ?  How  pleased  Gretchen  will  be  ! 
Gretchen  is  my  housekeeper;  and  the  best 
creature  in  the  world.  You  will  not  understand 
a  word  she  says ;  but  you  will  be  capital  friends, 
nevertheless.  This  walk  along  the  quays  is 
called  the  Boompjes ;  which  means  Hhe  little 
trees.'*  They  may  have  been  little  when  they 
first  got  that  name  ;  but  they  are  very  big  trees 
now,  anyhow," 

Chatting  thus,  he  went  on  to  say  that,  though 
a  Dutchman  by  birth,  he  was  English  by  educa- 
tion ;  that  he  had  been  for  many  years  a  widow- 
er, and  had  lost  two  little  daughters  whom  he 
dearly  loved  ;  that  he  delighted  in  the  society  of 
the  young ;  and  that  the  pleasure  with  which  he 
received  us  was  only  diminished  by  the  know-: 
ledge  that  we  must  leave  so  soon. 

Being  now  arrived  in  front  of  a  large  house 
with  a  great  deal  of  wood  carving  about  the 
doors  and  windows,  Mr,  Bose  ushered  us  into  a 
little  dark  office,  with  rows  of  ledgers  all  round 
the  walls,  and  a  desk  beside  the  window.  He 
rang  the  bell,  and  a  fat  old  woman,  with  a  mob 
cap,  and  a  plate  of  gilt  metal  on  her  forehead, 
came  bustling  in ;  embraced  us  rapturously,  and 
took  us  up-stairs  to  breakfast.  The  breakfast 
was  laid  in  a  quaint  paneled  room  with  a  pol- 
ished floor,  upon  which  we  were  not  allowed  to 
walk  till  we  had  exchanged  our  dusty  shoes  for 
some  huge  list  slippers  which  lay  outside  the 
door.     After  breakfast,  Mr.  Bose  took  us  for  a 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


61 


walk  ;  and  a  most  perplexing  walk  it  was, 
through  labyrinths  of  streets,  over  scores  of 
drawbridges,  and  beside  innumerable  canals ; 
all  of  which  were  alike  shaded  by  trees,  crowded, 
with  vessels,  and  swarming  with  sailors.  In  the 
afternoon  we  came  back,  very  tired  and  hungry ; 
and  at  dinner  had  thin  soup,  and  sour  cabbages, 
and  jam  with  our  meat,  none  of  which  we  liked 
at  all,  though  we  were  too  pohte  to  say  so. 
After  dinner,  our  host  went  out  again,  and 
Gretchen  was  left  to  entertain  us  till  evening  ; 
when  we  had  tea  and  chatted  by  twilight,  while 
Mr.  Bose  smoked  his  pipe,  and  drank  Schiedam 
and  Seltzer  water. 

I  cannot  recall  the  substance  of  our  conversa- 
tion, for  I  was  tired  and  dreamy,  and  he  spoke 
more  to  Hilda  than  to  me  ;  but  I  remember 
how  I  sat  looking  at  him  by  the  fading  light, 
reading  every  line  and  lineament  of  his  faQ©-,  and 
photographing  his  portrait  on  my  memory.  I 
see  him  now — a  little  spare  figure,  with  scant 
gray  locks,  and  an  eye  blue,  benevolent,  and 
bright  as  day.  "A  man  of  God's  making," 
with  goodness  and  sorrow  written  legibly  on  his 
brow.  When  we  wished  him  good-night,  he 
kissed  us  both  and  bade  us  sleep  well,  for  we 
must  rise  with  the  sun  to  resume  our  journey. 
And  we  did  sleep  well,  sinking  deeply  down 
between  ftie  fragrant  sheets,  and  lulled  by  the 
murmuring  sounds  that  rose  from  quay  and 
river. 

With  the  first  blush  of  early  morning  came 
Gretchen  to  wake  us,  and  long  before  the  people 
of  Rotterdam  were  stirring  we  had  bidden 
adieu  to  the  stout  old  hand-maiden  and  the 
quaint  house  on  the  Boompjes,  and  were 
shivering  on  board  a  steamer  which  was  to 
convey  us  to  Mayence. 

"  I  only  wish  I  could  spare  time  to  go  with 
you,  my  children,"  said  Mr.  Bose,  as  the  last 
passengers  came  hurrying  on  deck.  "  However, 
you  will  be  taken  good  care  of  all  the  way.  I 
have  paid  for  every  thing  in  advance,  and  the 
steward  of  this  boat  engages  to  see  you  off"  by 
the  diligence  when  your  water  journey  is  ended. 
In  the  mean  time,  I  will  write  to  your  father. 
God  bless  you  both,  and  good-by.  I  must  go 
now,  or  they  will  carry  me  down  the  river 
before  I  know  where  I  am  !" 

He  then  kissed  us  many  times,  gave  me  a 
paper  which  secured  our  places  as  far  as  the 
steamer  could  take  us ;  and  so,  with  glistening 
eyes,  bade  us  a  last  farewell,  and  went  away. 

What  with  Hilda's  continued  weakness  and 
fretfulness,  the  discomfort  of  living  daily 
amongst  strangers,  and  the  exceeding  dullness  of 
the  scenery,  the  journey  was  dreary  enough. 
The  travelers  were  mostly  Dutch,  and  took  but 
little  notice  of  us ;  and,  for  the  first  two  days 
at  least,  our  journey  lay  between  poplar-border- 
ed dykes  and  dreary  flats,  with  now  and  then  a 
windmill  to  break  the  dull  monotony  of  land 
and  sky.  That  this  river  could  be  the  Rhine, 
the  beautiful,  romantic,  castled  Rhine,  of  which 
I  had  read  so  much,  and  of  which  Hugh  Farqu- 
har  had  told  me  so  many  tales  and  legends, 
seemed  impossible. 

On  the  third  day,  I  began  to  believe  it.  Past 
Cologne,  the  scenery  became  beautiful,  and  for 
the  first  time  I  beheld  mountains,  vineyards,  and 
ivied  ruins.  Then  a  number  of  French  and 
English  tourists,  and  a  band  of  itinerant  musi- 
cians arrived  on  board ;  and,  as  it  was  very 


warm  and  fine,  the  tables  were  laid  on  deck, 
and  we  dined  in  the  open  air.  All  this  was 
novel  and  exhilarating,  and  the  hours  flew  so 
quickly  that  the  summer  dusk  came  on  only  too 
soon,  and  we  landed,  quite  unwillingly,  at 
Coblentz  for  the  night. 

The  perpetual  traveling,  however,  now  began 
to  tell  upon  us,  and  although  the  weather  was 
even  brighter,  and  the  course  of  the  river  more 
lovely  than  ever,  we  were  so  wearied  when  the 
fourth  day  came  that  we  could  not  half  enjoy 
the  wonders  of  the  journey.  Landing  late  in 
the  afternoon  opposite  Mayence,  we  found  that 
the  diligence  had  started  hours  ago ;  so  the. 
steward  took  us  to  a  quiet  inn  close  by,  where 
we  supped  at  a  long  table  with  a  number  of 
other  people,  and  slept  in  a  bedroom  overlook- 
ing the  river. 

The  next  morning  we  were  on  the  road 
betimes,  occupying  two  opposite  comers  in  a 
huge  unwieldy  diligence  full  of  bearded  travel- 
ers, none  of  whom  spoke  a  word  of  English. 
About  midday  we  alighted  at  a  dirty  inn  in  a 
dirty  village,  and  dined  miserably.  Then  on 
again  for  hours  and  hours,  past  woods,  and 
mountains,  and  picturesque  hamlets  lying  low  in 
green  valleys,  where  sometimes  the  road  ran  for 
miles  together  beside  the  eager  and  beautiful 
Main  river.  Toward  evening  we  stopped  at  a 
little  wayside  building  with  a  flag  before  the 
door,  where  our  passports  and  luggage  were 
examined  by  three  or  four  soldiers  in  faded 
uniforms  of  blue  and  silver.  About  half  an 
hour  after  this,  we  turned  the  shoulder  of  a  hill 
and  came  suddenly  in  sight  of  a  pretty  town 
with  steeples  and  towers,  and  white  houses,  and 
a  quaint  old  bridge  of  boats.  It  was  just  dusk 
— dusk  enough  to  show  the  lighted  oriel  in  the 
Cathedral,  and  yet  not  so  dusk  as  to  vail  the 
outlines  of  the  hills,  or  the  gleaming  of  the 
river.  The  road  wound  downward  to  the  town, 
bordered  on  either  side  by  a  double  avenue  of 
gigantic  poplars.  At  the  foot  of  this  avenue 
stood  a  great  hotel,  before  the  door  of  which 
the  diligence  drew  up.  Then  a  waiter  came 
running  out ;  the  conductor  flung  our  boxes  on 
the  pavement ;  the  passengers  gesticulated ; 
and  from  half-a-dozen  mouths  together  I  heard 
the  welcome  name  of  "  Zollenstrasse — Zollen- 
strasse-am-Main !" 

We  had  no  sooner  alighted  than  the  diligence 
rolled  rapidly  away,  and  left  us  standing  face  to 
face  with  the  bowing  waiter,  who  smiled,  nodded, 
examined  the  address  upon  our  luggage,  darted 
back  into  the  hotel,  and  presently  returned  with 
a  man  in  a  blue  and  silver  livery,  who  put  our 
boxes  on  a  truck,  and  led  the  way.  We  follow- 
ed him  down  a  narrow  side-road  bordered  with 
trees,  and  stopped  before  a  huge  wooden  gate 
with  two  enormous  knockers,  and  a  lamp  over- 
head. This  gate  was  opened  by  a  porter  in  the 
same  livery,  who  preceded  us  across  the  court- 
yard, up  a  lofty  flight  of  steps,  and  into  a  large 
parlor,  where  an  elderly  lady  and  eight  young 
girls  were  sitting  at  needlework.  The  lady  rose, 
extended  a  hand  to  each,  and  kissed  ua  both 
upon  the  forehead. 

"  Welcome,"  said  she,  in  good  English,  "  wel- 
come, my  dear  children,  to  your  new  home. 
Try  to  like  it  and  to  be  happy  with  us,  and  we 
shall  all  love  you." 

She  then  made  a  sign  to  the  rest,  who  im- 
mediately surrounded  us.    Some  shook  hands 


52 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


with  us ;  some  kissed  us  on  the  cheeks ;  some 
disembarrassed  us  of  our  cloaks  and  bonnets ; 
and  all  had  a  kind  word  or  two  of  broken 
English  to  bid  us  welcome — all,  except  one  shy 
little  dark  maiden,  who  whispered  "  willkom- 
men,"  in  my  ear,  and  then,  blushing  and  laugh- 
ing, ran  away. 

"  Your  names,  I  think,"  said  the  lady,  refer- 
ring to  a  letter  which  she  took  from  the  pocket' 
of  her  apron,  "  are  Barbara  and  Hilda  Churchill, 
Now  you  must  tell  me  which  is  Barbara,  and 
which  Hilda,  that  I  may  know  how  to  call  you." 
"  I  am  Hilda,"  said  my  sister,  "  and  I  am 
called  Miss  Churchill,  because  I  am  the  eldest." 
The  lady  smiled  gravely. 
"  We  have  no  Misses  here,"  said  she,  "  and  no 
distinctions  of  age.  Your  companions  call  each 
other  by  their  baptismal  names,  and  it  is  our 
rule  to  recognize  no  superiority  but  that  of 
merit.  As  for  myself,  I  am  the  superintendent 
of  this  Academy,  and  you  will  call  me  Madame 
Brenner.  But  I  daresay  you  are  tired  and 
hungry  after  your  day's  journey.  Annchen,  see 
if  supper  be  ready." 

Annchen  courtesied  and  left  the  room,  while 
Madame  Brenner  resumed  her  seat,  and  con- 
tinued to  address  us. 

"  At  present,"  said  she,  "  our  numbers  are 
few ;  for  the  half-yearly  term  only  commenced 
yesterday,  and  our  students  rarely  assemble  un- 
der a  week.  However,  we  shall  have  more  ar- 
rivals to-morrow  ;  and  by  Sunday  our  society,  I 
daresay,  will  be  complete.  But  here  comes 
Annchen,  telling  us  that  supper  is  ready." 

So  saying  she  took  me  by  the  hand,  left  Hilda 
to  follow  with  Annchen  and  the  rest,  and  led 
the  way  into  an  adjoining  room  where  there  was 
a  long  table  laid  for  supper.  The  meal  was 
plain,  but  abundant,  and  consisted  of  soup,  eggs, 
rice-puddings,  coffee,  cream-cheese,  brown  bread 
and  salad.  This  over,  we  returned  to  the  par- 
lor, and  one  of  the  scholars  read  prayers  aloud 
in  German.  When  we  rose  from  our  knees, 
each  scholar  went  up  to  Madame  Brenner  in 
turn  and  bade  her  good  night;  but  when  we 
followed  their  example,  she  shook  her  head,  and 
said — 

"  To-night  I  will  go  with  you,  and  show  you 
where  you  are  to  sleep." 

We  followed  her  through  a  long  corridor  with 
a  row  of  doors  on  one  side  and  windows  on  the 
otiier. 

"  This,"  said  Madame  Brenner,  "  is  one  of 
our  four  dormitories.  It  contains  six  rooms,  and 
in  each  room  six  students  sleep.  Every  door 
is  numbered,  and  your  door  is  number  five. 
Annchen  and  Luisa  are  at  present  your  only 
companions ;  but  as  soon  as  the  rest  arrive, 
each  bed  will  have  its  occupant.  Bo  you  like 
your  room  ?" 

It  was  a  pretty,  conventual,  white-washed 
diamber,  containing  six  little  beds  with  white 
hangings,  six  rush-bottomed  chairs,  three 
large  deal  presses,  and  iio  carpet.  It  looked 
ciieerful  and  airy,  nothwithstanding  its  sim- 
plicity, and  we  both  liked  it  at  a  glance. 

Madame  Brenner  then  bade  us  good  night, 
Mid  our  companions  assisted  us  to  open  our 
trunks,  showed  us  in  which  press  to  keep  our 
dothes,  helped  us  to  undress,  and  made  as 
much  of  us  as  if  we  had  been  long-expected 
guests. 


"  You  shall  have  my  bed,  Barbara,  if  you 
like  it  best,"  said  Annchen.  "  It  is  next  the 
window,  and  overlooks  the  garden." 

"  In  that  case,"  cried  Luisa,  "  I  shall  sleep 
next  to  Hilda,  and  that  will  be  delightful ! 
Hilda  and  I  must  be  great  friends.  I  am  so 
fond  of  the  English !  There  was  an  English 
girl  here  last  year,  and  we  were  the  fastest 
friends  in  the  world.  She  gave  me  this  locket 
with  her  hair  in  it ;  but  she  only  wrote  to  me 
me  once  after  she  left,  and  I  fear  she  has  for- 
gotten me.  And  so  you  have  come  all  this  way, 
and  have  crossed  the  sea !  Ah,  how  I  should 
like  to  travel !  I  have  never  seen  the  sea.  I 
come  from  Mulhouse,  which  is  only  a  day's  jour- 
ney ;  and  yet  that  is  the  longest  distance  I  have 
ever  traveled." 

"  You  speak  English  very  well,"  I  observed, 
sleepily. 

"  Speak  English !  I  should  think  so,  indeed ! 
You  will  not  be  surprised  at  it  when  you  have 
been  here  a  few  days,  and  have  seen  what  our 
English  classes  are.  Such  tasks  as  we  have  to 
learn !  Such  themes,  and  dictations,  and  tire- 
some rules !  Mein  Gott !  we  are  martyrs  to 
English,  and  are  never  allowed  to  speak  German 
except  in  the  hours  of  recreation !  And  there 
is  Madame  Thompson,  our  English  gouvernante  ! 
— Oh,  Annchen,  how  Hilda  and  Barbara  will  be 
amused  with  Madame  Thompson  !" 

"  Madame  Thompson  is  very  good-natured," 
said  Annchen,  quietly. 

"  And  then  there  is  Monsieur  Duvemoy,  our 
French  tutor,  and  we  have  two  French  govern- 
esses besides,  and  such  lots  of  other  professors 
for  music,  drawing,  Italian,  natural  philosophy, 
elocution,  and  Heaven  knows  what  beside ! 
Have  you  been  to  school  before  ?  No !  Ah, 
then,  you  have  no  idea  of  what  hard  work  it 
is ;  and  this  is  not  a  school,  you  know,  but  a 
College." 

"What  is  the  difference?"  asked  Hilda, 
sitting  up  in  bed,  and  looking  considerably 
dismayed  at  the  prospect  disclosed  by  her  talk- 
ative neighbor. 

"  The  difference  ?  Oh,  the  difference  is  enor- 
mous I  In  the  first  place,  this  is  a  government 
establishment,  founded  and  endowed ;  and  there 
are  upward  of  seventy  students,  thirty  of 
whom  pay  nothing,  but  are  taught  for  charity, 
and  elected  every  five  years.  Then  we  have 
examinations  twice  a  year  ;  and  when  we  leave 
College  we  take  home  a  certificate  signed  by 
the  Grand  Duke  himself  And  we  learn  in 
terms;  and  we  call  our  holidays  vacations;  and 
our  dining-room  a  refectory ;  and  our  teachers 
are  never  masters  or  governesses,  but  always 
professors.  Oh,  a  College  is  a  Very  grand  place, 
I  assure  you,  compared  with  a  school ;  but  one 
has  to  work  like  a  slave  for  the  honor  of  being 
brought  up  in  it !" 

"  I  think  I  would  rather  have  been  sent  to 
school,  though,"  said  Hilda,  dolefully. 

Of  this  observation,  however,  Luisa  took  no 
notice  ;  but  kept  running  on  long  after  Annchen 
had  put  out  the  light,  and  I  had  grown  too 
sleepy  to  listen. 

"  Silver  medal  —  half-hohday  —  breakfast  — 
milk  and  water — Madame   Brenner  —  counter 

point — perspective ' ' 

These  were  the  last  words  I  heard,  sinking, 
sinking  away  into  the  ocean  of  dreams. 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


53 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


ZOLLENSTRASSE-AM-MAIN. 


It  is  not  my  intention  to  dwell  at  any  con- 
siderable length  upon  the  first  years  of  my  Col- 
lege life.  I  have  already  lingered  too  long  and 
too  fondly  over  these  early  reminiscences,  and 
I  must  now  content  myself  with  an  outline  of 
that  pleasant  interval  which  links  childhood  to 
youth,  and  youth  to  womanhood — which  stores 
the  mind  with  knowledge,  and  the  heart  with  all 
good  impulses — which  touches  already  on  the 
confines  of  Romance,  and  yet  leaves  the  poem 
of  life  unwritten  and  untold.  It  will  bear  to  be 
related  rapidly.  The  sketch  of  a  month,  a  week, 
a  day,  would  suffice  to  paint  the  pleasant  monot- 
ony of  years  which  so  nearly  resemble  each 
other.  Be  this  chapter  devoted,  then,  to  an  '*  ab- 
stract and  brief  chronicle"  of  our  occu^tiona 
and  way  of  life  abroad ;  and  also  of  the  domin- 
ions, the  capital,  and  the  Collegiate  academy  in 
which  it  had  pleased  fate  .and  my  father  to  es- 
tablish us. 

Situated  in  the  very  heart  of  Central  Germany, 
traversed  by  a  broad  and  beautiful  river,  and 
celebrated  alike  for  its  scenery  and  its  mineral 
waters,  the  Grand  Duchy  of  ZoUenstrasse-am- 
Main  occupies  but  a  very  small  space  upon  the 
map,  and  only  half  a  page  of  Murray's  Conti- 
nental Handbook.  The  truth  is  that  the  whole 
territory  covers  an  area  of  only  eighty  square 
miles ;  that  the  population  numbers  somewhat 
less  than  eleven  thousand  souls ;  that  the  cap- 
ital consists  of  a  square  and  two  streets,  chiefly 
hotels  and  lodging-houses  ;  and  that  but  for  the 
influx  of  visitors  every  summer  and  autumn,  the 
inhabitants  would  long  ago  have  died  of  inani- 
tion and  become  an  extinct  species.  Under 
these  circumstances,  the  court  of  ZoUenstrasse 
can  hardly  be  expected  to  exercise  much  influ- 
ence upon  the  affairs  of  Europe,  or,  even  in  its 
matrimonial  alliances,  materially  to  affect  the 
balance  of  power.  And  yet  the  Grand  Duchy 
is  a  real  Grand  Duchy ;  and  the  Grand  Duke  is 
a  real  Grand  Duke  ;  and  the  comfortable  white 
house  in  which  he  lives  is  called  The  Palace  ;  and 
the  two  httle  soldiers  who  walk  up  and  down 
before  the  door  all  day  long  are  privates  in  that 
shabby  regiment  of  which  His  Serene  Highness 
is  so  proud,  and  which  the  townspeople,  with 
pardonable  patriotism,  style  the  Military  Estab- 
lishment of  the  State.  Besides  this,  the  Duchy 
has  its  national  coinage,  stamped  with  a  profile 
of  Leopold  XVIII.,  Dux  Zoll  :  on  one  side, 
and  the  Ducal  arms  on  the  other ;  and  its  na- 
tional costume,  which  is  horribly  unbecoming ; 
and  its  national  dialect,  upon  which  the  Zollen- 
strassers  pique  themselves  more  than  enough,  to 
the  infinite  amusement  of  their  neighbors. 

ZoUenstrasse,  the  capital,  consists,  as  I  have 
already  observed,  chiefly  of  lodging-houses,  the 
largest  of  which,  however,  belongs  to  no  less  a 
landlord  than  His  Serene  Highness  himself.  It 
was  formerly  one  of  the  royal  residences  ;  but  is 
now  let  out  in  suites,  and  is  by  far  the  most  rea- 
sonable and  best  appointed  establishment  in  the 
town.  The  fact  is  humiliating ;  but  the  Duke 
is  poor  and  the  speculation  profitable.  The 
other  principal  buildings  are  the  Pump-room, 
Bath-house,  Conversation  Haus,  Palace,  Theater, 
and  Collegiate  Academy.     The  Pump-room,  or 


Trinkhalle,  is  an  open  colonnade  painted  gaudi- 
ly in  fresco,  and  provided  with  a  chalybeate  tap 
at  either  end.  The  Brunnen  Madchen  are  pretty 
and  obliging.  The  waters  taste  like  hot  ink  and 
lucifer  matches.  The  Conversation  Haus  is  a 
superb  building,  containing  news-rooms,  gaming- 
rooms,  and  a  large  hall  which  serves  for  balls 
and  concerts.  It  was  built  by  the  present  Duke, 
and  is  by  him  let  to  a  company  of  French  spec- 
ulators at  a  round  rental  of  sixty  thousand  dol- 
lars per  annum.  All  things  considered.  His 
Serene  Highness  is  not,  perhaps,  quite  so  needy 
as  one  might  suppose.  He  has  many  little  per- 
quisites, besides  those  already  enumerated.  He 
taxes  the  hotel-keepers,  th^  visitors,  and  the  itin- 
erant dealers  in  stag's-horn  brooches  and  Swiss 
carvings.  He  levies  an  impost  upon  pleasure- 
boats,  omnibuses,  and  donkeys.  He  regulates 
the  tariff  for  ices,  coffee,  and  Strasbourg  beer. 
He  claims  a  per-centage  on  the  sale  of  guide- 
books and  newspapers ;  and  exacts  a  dividend 
out  of  the  visitors'  washing-bills.  Then  all  the 
flys  and  saddle-horses  belong  to  him ;  and  the 
theater  is  his  property;  and  the  Bath-house 
was  his  father's  private  speculation;  so  that, 
concisely  to  sum  up  the  sources  of  the  Grand 
Ducal  revenue.  His  Serene  Highness  is  lodging- 
house  keeper,  theatrical  manager,  job-master, 
bath-owner,  landlord  of  gambling-houses,  and 
general  tax-collector  to  the  state.  You  would 
never  think  this  to  look  at  him.  At  least,  you 
would  not  have  thought  it  had  you  looked  at  him 
so  nearly  and  so  often  as  I  did,  and  seen  what  a 
fine,  handsome,  polite  gentleman  he  was,  with  a 
ribbon  in  his  button-hole,  and  a  cream-colored 
moustache  that  hung  over  his  mouth  like  a  fringe 
of  spun  silk.  He  used  to  ride  and  drive  about 
quite  unattended,  and  walk  in  the  public  gardens 
after  dinner  with  his  two  little  boys,  Uke  a  mere 
ordinary  mortal,  and  many  a  time,  when  the 
French  company  came  down  and  Madame  Bren- 
ner took  a  select  detachment  of  her  scholars  to 
the  theater  to  witness  a  piece  of  Racine  or 
Moliere,  I  have  seen  his  august  Highness  ap- 
plauding with  his  own  royal  hands  ;  or,  like  an 
affable  potentate  as  he  was,  leaning  back  in  his 
seat,  and  laughing  till  the  tears  ran  down  his 
cheeks.  The  theater,  I  should  observe,  was 
always  over  at  nine  ;  and  the  ladies  in  the  boxes 
wore  their  bonnets,  and  took  their  knitting  with 
them.  \ 

Then  the  Grand  Duke  was  an  amateur  com- 
poser, and  wrote  classical  cantatas  which  were 
performed  by  the  pupils  of  our  academy  ;  and  he 
played  the  violin,  it  was  said,  to  admiration  ;  and 
he  turned  the  most  exquisite  little  boxes  in  ivory 
for  all  his  royal  nieces  and  cousins,  down  to  those 
of  Saxe-Hohenhausen  in  the  fortieth  degree ;  and 
he  painted  in  oils  ;  and  he  wrote  poetry ;  and  at 
his  chateau  of  Schwartzberg,  a  romantic  old 
hunting-lodge  about  two  miles  from  the  capital, 
he  kept  a  preserve  of  tame  wild-boars,  for  the 
express  purpose  of  getting  up  boar-hunts  by 
torchlight,  for  the  amusement  of  those  distin- 
guished visitors  who  came  to  stay  with  Jtiim  in 
the  season.  So  his  tastes,  you  see,  were  in  the 
highest  degree  refined,  and  one  was  only  sur- 
prised to  think  bow  little  they  interfered  with 
his  duties  as  a  sovereign  and  a  tradesman. 

His  duties  as  a  sovereign,  however,  were  not 
onerous ;  but  consisted  chiefly  of  a  due  super- 
vision of  the  perquisites  before  mentioned,  and 


/  / 


•54 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


the  expenditure  of  the  same.  He  held  a  privy- 
council  every  morning  after  breakfast,  and  a 
levee  once  a  month.  He  reviewed  the  Military 
Establishment  of  the  State  every  two  or  three 
days  ;  and,  as  President  of  our  Academy,  hon- 
ored the  Examinations  with  his  presence  at  the 
close  of  each  term.  On  court-days  a  flag  was 
hoisted  at  the  palace  ;  the  sentries  were  doubled ; 
and  the  band  played  for  an  extra  hour  in  the 
public  garden.  I  remember  now,  as  well  as 
possible,  how  we  school-girls  were  amused  to 
see  the  ladies  picking  their  way  across  the 
square  in  their  court-dresses,  with  their  maid- 
servants and  umbrellas  —  how  we  used  to  make 
bets  beforehand  as  to  who  would  walk  and  who 
would  hire  a  fly,  and  how  many  families  would 
borrow  the  Grafin  von  Steinmetz's  old  yellow 
landau  —  how  daring  our  remarks  were  when 
Herr  Secretary  Ungar  went  by,  because  he  was 
stone-deaf,  and  could  not  hear  a  word  we  said  — 
and  what  fun  we  made  of  General  Schinkel's 
pigtail,  and  the  Town-Councillors'  legs. 

It  at  first  surprised  me  to  learn  how  strictly 
these  little  courts  were  confined  to  the  nobles 
and  dignitaries  of  ZoUenstrasse  proper,  and  how 
rigidly  the  etiquette  was  kept  up  with  regard  to 
strangers.  No  foreigner  could  be  presented 
unless  he  brought  proof  that  he  had  been  pre- 
sented at  home  ;  and  not  even  a  German  baron 
from  a  neighboring  state  was  received  without 
first  submitting  his  credentials  to  a  privy-coun- 
cillor. I  own  that  I  laughed  at  this  for  a  long 
time,  and  thought  it  preposterous  that  an  Eng- 
lish commoner  whose  income  numbered  thou- 
sands when  that  of  His  Highness  numbered  tens, 
and  whose  house  and  gardens  were  probably  as 
large  as  all  the  houses  and  gardens  in  the  Duchy 
of  ZoUenstrasse  put  together,  should  be  excluded 
from  the  honors  of  a  Ducal  levee  simply  because 
he  had  never  kissed  hands  at  St.  James's  ;  but 
as  I  grew  older  I  discovered  the  wisdom  of  this 
arrangement,  and  found  that,  after  all,  the  pre- 
cautions of  the  Zollenstrassers  were  not  quite 
misplaced.  The  fact  was  that  our  annual  visit- 
ors were  of  a  very  miscellaneous  description. 
They  came  and  went  like  the  swallows ;  with 
this  difference,  that,  instead  of  seeking  a  warm- 
er clime,  they  frequently  came  from  one  which 
was  already  too  hot  to  hold  them.  How  was 
pne  to  know  who  they  were,  whence  they  came, 
or  whither  they  were  going  ?  How  guess  the 
antecedents  of  those  elegant  ladies  who  drank 
the  waters  in  the  morning ;  ate  ices  all  day  long 
in  the  pubhc  garden  ;  and  staked  their  five-franc 
pieces  at  the  roulette-tables  every  evening? 
That  French  exquisite  who  calls  himself  a  mar- 
quis and  wears  a  diamond  as  large  as  a  three- 
penny piece,  is  perhaps  a  convicted  forger,  with 
T.  F:  branded  on  his  shoulder.  That  gallant 
English  tourist  with  the  military  frock,  may  be 
a  blackleg.  That  wealthy  capitalist  who  has  hired 
the  best  suite  at  the  best  hotel,  a  fraudulent  bank- 
rupt. To  speak  truth,  a  gaming  spa  offers  many 
inducements  to  the  equivocal  of  both  sexes  ; 
and  though  his  Serene  Highness,  Leopold  XVIII., 
did  condescend  to  provide  the  tables,  furnish  the 
lodgings,  and  accept  the  profits,  he  had  no  re- 
source but  to  turn  his  august  back  upon  those 
visitors  by  whom  he  lived. 

But  it  is  time  that  I  said  something  of  our 
own  way  of  life,  and  of  the  establishment  where- 
of we  were  members. 


Excepting  only  the  Conversation  Haus,  our 
Collegiate  Academy  was  the  handsomest  build- 
ing in  the  little  capital  of  Zol!enstrasse-am-Main. 
The  house  was  large  and  imposing ;  and,  with  its 
long  wings,  occupied  three  sides  of  a  spacious 
courtyard.  It  contained  a  concert-room,  a  library, 
eight  class-rooms,  two  large  dining-halls,  apart- 
ments for  the  resident  professors,  dormitories  for 
sixty  scholars,  a  board  room,  and  extensive  of- 
fices. At  the  back  of  the  Academy  lay  an  ex- 
tensive kitchen-garden;  and  to  the  left  of  the 
garden,  a  playground  and  gymnasium.  The 
number  of  residents,  exclusive  of  teachers  and 
servants,  was  limited  to  sixty ;  thirty  of  whom 
were  boys,  and  thirty  girls.  Fifteen  of  each  sex 
were  admitted  on  the  foundation.  Out-pupils 
were  also  received  to  the  number  of  sixty  more ; 
but  these  attended  daily,  made  their  payments 
half-yearly,  and  were  neither  permitted  to  dine  at 
our  tables,  nor  join  us  in  our  hours  of  recreation. 
A  comfortable  waiting-room  was  placed,  how- 
ever, at  their  disposal,  where  they  could  read, 
work,  or  practice ;  and  those  who  came  from  a 
distance  were  allowed  to  have  refreshments  sent 
in  from  a  Gasthof  in  the  Theater-platz.  The  in- 
terior arrangements  of  the  Academy  were  per- 
fect. The  male  and  female  pupils  were  kept  as 
thoroughly  apart  as  if  they  had  not  been  resident 
under  the  one  roof.  We  had  our  separate  class- 
rooms, dining-rooms,  and  occupations  ;  and,  save 
at  the  half-yearly /(?^es,  the  concerts,  the  exam- 
inations, or  the  chapel  on  Sundays,  never  ex- 
changed so  much  as  a  glance.  Fdr  the  mainte- 
nance of  order  and  discipline  we  were  also  well 
provided.  A  matron  attended  to  the  housekeep- 
ing, and  Madame  Brenner  had  the  supervision 
of  all  matters  connected  with  the  education  and 
comfort  of  the  female  students.  A  president  and 
master-librarian  exercised  supreme  authority 
over  the  boys.  The  commissariat  was  liberal ; 
a  medical  officer  resided  in  the  house  ;  and  six 
women-servants  and  two  men  were  kept,  besides 
the  porter  at  the  gate.  These,  with  four  resi- 
dent professors,  constituted  the  whole  staff,  and  a 
highly  efficient  staff  it  was. 

As  for  the  education  afforded  by  this  institu- 
tion, I  can  not  better  explain  its  aim  and  nature 
than  by  stating  at  once  that  it  was  essentially  a 
school  of  art,  devoted  to  the  cultivation  of  native 
talent  and  regulated  upon  principles  which  sub- 
ordinated all  minor  considerations  to  this  one 
great  object.  Thus  the  free  scholars  were  all 
brought  up  to  the  pursuit  of  either  music,  sculp- 
ture, or  painting ;  and  even  those  students  whose 
means  enabled  them  to  dispense  with  a  profes- 
sion, were  compelled,  in  like  manner,  to  conform 
to  the  academic  rules,  and  select  some  leading 
study.  The  head  masters  of  each  department  re- 
sided in  the  house,  and  the  rest  of  the  teachers  at- 
tended daily.  Every  year  six  advanced  students 
of  each  sex  wei'e  elected  as  monitors,  whereupon 
it  became  their  duty  to  overlook  the  studies  of  the 
rest ;  and,  though  none  but  Germans  were  admit- 
ted to  the  privileges  of  the  gratuitous  education, 
foreigners  who  were  willing  to  pay  for  their  in- 
struction were  not  excluded.  There  were  limit- 
ations, however,  to  both  of  these  laws.  No 
German  who  was  a  subject  of  either  Austria  or 
R-ussia  could,  under  any  circumstances,  be  eligi- 
ble as  a  free  scholar ;  and  this  because  Austria 
and  Prussia  were  judged  sufficiently  rich  and 
powerful  to  cultivate  the  fine  arts  for  themselves. 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


55 


Neither  could  any  foreign  applicant  be  received 
on  paying  terms,  so  long  as  there  were  native 
applicants  of  equal  merit  in  the  field. 

This  being  the  case,  it  was  quite  a  rare  and 
fortunate  chance  that  Hilda  and  I  should  have 
succeeded  so  easily. 

I  have  already  said  that  the  Grand  Duke  was 
our  patron  and  perpetual  president ;  but  we  also 
had  honorary  members  and  subscribers  among 
most  of  the  crowned  heads  and  nobles  of  the 
German  Confederation.  We  held  yearly  exhibi- 
tions, and  concerts  during  the  season  ;  and  be- 
sides the  ordinary  examinations  at  the  close  of 
every  term,  we  had  a  grand  triennial  Competi- 
tion, to  which  art-professors  and  amateurs  from 
every  quarter  were  invited.  A  committee  of 
judgment  was  then  formed ;  medals  were  distrib- 
uted ;  and  to  those  pupils  whose  term  of  study 
had  expired,  certificates  of  merit  were  deljyered. 
Taken  as  a  whole,  I  doubt  if  there  be  in  all 
Europe  an  educational  institute  so  methodically 
conducted,  and  so  thoroughly  repaying  in  its  re- 
sults as  this  Collegiate  Academy  which  lies  perdu 
in  the  heart  of  a  remote  German  state,  scarcely 
known  even  by  name  beyond  the  confines  of 
the  Rhine  and  Elbe ;  but  destined  some  day  to 
be  famed  in  the  fame  of  its  disciples.  May  all 
prosperity  and  all  honor  be  with  it ;  and  may 
other  nations  take  example  by  it !  Methinks 
there  are  one  or  two  institutions  in  my  native 
country,  and,  perhaps,  one  or  two  more  in  the 
gayest  of  neighboring  capitals,  which  might  with 
advantage  be  remodeled  on  the  principles  of  our 
Zollenstrasse  School  of  Art. 

It  was  not  long  before  I  fell  in  with  the  pre- 
scribed routine,  and  became  thoroughly  at  home 
and  happy  in  my  student-life.  I  liked  my  teachers, 
my  friendly  school  companions,  and  the  pleas- 
ant regularity  of  hours  and  occupations.  Natural- 
ly eager  for  knowledge,  I  derived  inexpressible 
satisfaction  from  the  consciousness  of  daily  im- 
provement. To  wake  in  the  morning  with  all 
the  day  before  me,  and  to  know  that  every  hour 
of  that  day  was  laid  out  beforehand  for  ray  ben- 
efit— to  earn  a  smile  from  Madame  Brenner,  or 
a  word  of  praise  from  Professor  Metz — to  work 
hard,  while  work  was  the  order  of  the  hour — to 
play  heartily,  when  the  interval  of  relaxation 
came — to  steal  by  twilight  into  some  quiet  cor- 
ner, and  read  till  it  was  too  dark  to  do  aught 
but  sit  and  muse  with  folded  hands — to  sup  mer- 
rily off  such  pastoral  fare  as  milk,  and  fruit,  and 
fresh  brown  bread ;  and  afterward  to  go  to  bed, 
tired,  and  happy,  and  at  peace  with  myself  and 
all  the  world  besides — this  was  indeed  a  life  such 
as  I  had  never  known  before ;  such  as  I  have 
never  known  since ;  such  as  none  of  us  can 
know,  save  in  our  happy  school-days. 

Then  the  college  was  like  a  home,  in  the  true 
meaning  of  that  dear  old  Saxon  word  ;  and  we 
house-students  were  to  each  other,  for  the  most 
part,  as  the  members  of  a  single  family.  I  had 
many  friends,  for  we  were  all  friends,  and  two  or 
three  special  intimates.  Amongst  these  latter 
were  Annchen,  and  the  dark-haired  Luisa,  and  a 
tender-hearted  impulsive  Bavarian,  called  Ida 
Saxe,  with  a  heart  full  of  enthusiasm,  and  a  head 
full  of  legends.  I  became  much  attached  to  her ; 
and  when  Annchen  and  Luisa,  who  were  both 
older  than  myself,  had  left  the  school,  our  affec- 
tion grew  even  more  exclusive  than  before. 
Our  tastes,  ages,  studies,  and  ambitions  were  the  I 


We  had  each  chosen  painting  for  our 
principal  pursuit — we  studied  under  the  same 
master — we  drew  from  the  same  models — we 
worked  in  the  same  class,  and  we  occupied  the 
same  bedroom.  She  was  an  orphan,  and  looked 
forward  to  art  as  her  profession.  I  also  cherished 
visions  of  ambition,  and  hoped  that  the  time 
might  come  when  my  father  would  suffer  me  to 
turn  my  studies  to  their  just  account.  For  I 
had  talent,  and  my  talent  was  of  the  right  swt 
—  inborn,  earnest,  persevering,  confident  to 
strive,  humble  to  learn,  patient  in  defeat,  and 
unsatisfied  in  success.  Term  after  term,  I  won 
the  approbation  of  my  teachers,  and  felt  the 
power  growing  stronger  and  clearer  within  me. 
By  and  by  I  carried  off  the  third-class  medal  for 
the  best  drawing  from  the  antique  ;  and,  at  the 
close  of  my  third  year,  the  second  silver  medal 
for  an  original  composition.  To  achieve  the 
first  silver  medal,  or  even,  at  some  far-off  day, 
to  become  the  victorious  winner  of  the  first-class 
certificate  and  the  grand  gold  medal  of  the  Tri- 
ennial Competition,  were  glories  that  I  could 
scarcely  hope  to  compass  ;  but  which,  though  I 
hardly  dared  confess  it  to  myself,  had  become 
the  great  aims  of  my  life. 

As  for  Hilda,   she  had  no  such  ambition. 
Finding  herself,  according  to  the  school  regula- 
tions, obliged  to  make  choice  of  some  especial 
art,  she  took  up  that  of  music,  in  which  she  was 
already  a'  tolerable  proficient.     I  do  not  think 
she  really  loved  music,  or  selected  it  out  of  pre- 
ference ;  but  because  she  disliked  work,  and  be- 
lieved that  in  this  science  she  would  find  less  to 
learn.     She  was  mistaken,  however  ;  for  music 
as  it  is  taught  in  Germany,  and  music  as  it  was 
taught  by  Miss  Whymper,  were  two  very  dif- 
ferent affairs.     In  the  first  place,  she  had  to  un- 
learn much  of  her  previous  knowledge,  which 
is  never  easy ;  in  the  second  place,  she  had  to 
study  countei'point ;  and  in  the  third  place,  she 
was  forced  to  practice  for  a  certain  number  of 
hours  per  diem.     As  for  the  light  modern  school 
to  which  she  had  hitherto  been  accustomed,  it 
availed  her  nothing.     Instead  of  Fantasias  and 
Airs  with  amazing  variations,  she  was  condemn- 
ed to  the  Sonatas  of  Beethoven  and  Mozart, 
and  the  fugues  of  Sebastian  Bach.     Cast  adrift, 
thus,  upon  an  academy  where  an  arrangement 
of  operatic  airs  by  Hertz  was  looked  upon  with 
pious  horror,  my  unlucky  sister  had  but  a  hard 
time  of  it,  and,  for  the  first  half  year  or  so, 
made   herself   consistently  wretched  and   dis- 
agreeable.     The  truth  is  that  Hilda  was  not 
amiable.      She  was    handsome,  haughty,   and 
ready-witted;  and  she  possessed  a  remarkable 
faciUty  in  the  acquirement  of  accomplishments. 
Up  to  a  certain  point,  and  for  just  so  long  as  her 
curiosity  held  out,  she  succeeded  rapidly ;  but  she 
had  no  real  industry  ;  and  as  soon  as  she  ceased 
to  be  amused,  grew  careless,  impatient,  and  out 
of  heart.    With  such  a  disposition,  it  is  difficult 
to  go  creditably  through  any  academic  educa- 
tion ;  and  indeed  I  hardly  know  how  or  where  it 
would  have  ended,  had  not  Professor  Oberstein 
one  day  discovered  that  Hilda  had  a  voice — a 
voice  so  pure,  so  extensive,  so  sweet  and  flexi- 
ble, as  had  seldom  before  been  heard  within  the 
walls  of  the  college.    From  this  time  forth  Hilda 
was   content;   and  the  masters  had  compara- 
tively little  trouble  to  make  her  work.    To  sing 
was  easier  than  to  play  fugues,  and  study  Al- 


56 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


brechtsberger.    Besides  her  vanity  was  touched. 
She  longed  for  the  time  when  she  could  take 
part  in  the  academy  concerts ;  and  she  found 
that  when  singing  she  looked  even  handsomer 
than  when  silent.     Her  progress  soon  surprised 
us ;   and  though  she   continued  to   be   but  a 
moderate  pianist  and  a  very  indifferent  theorist, 
she  improved  so  rapidly  in  her  new  study,  that 
after  about  eighteen  months  of  Professor  Ober- 
stein's  tuition,  she  was  competent  to  sing  in  a 
concerted  piece  at  one  of  our  matinees  musicales. 
From   concerted  pieces  she  was  promoted  to 
solos;  and  though  I  am  not  certain  that  she 
continued  always  to  advance  at  the  same  rate, 
she  at  least  kept  up  her  reputation  in  the  vocal 
classes,  and  from  time  to  time  received,  not 
only  the  applause  of  an  audience,  but  the  more 
solid  testimonial  of  a  second  or  third  class  ex- 
amination medal,     I  do  not  suppose,  however, 
that  Hilda  was  ever  so  thoroughly  happy  in  her 
school-life  as  I  was  in  mine.     Naturally  proud 
and  reserved,  she  made  no  intimacies,  and  was 
altogether  less  popular  than  myself.     She  never 
took  me  into  her  heart,  as  I  had  once  hoped. 
We  were  -good  friends,  but  not  much  more ;  and 
our  sojourn  at  Zollenstrasse  drew  us  less  together 
than  one  could  have  anticipated.    She  had  but 
little  sympathy  with  my  pursuits,  and  none  with 
my  ambitions.   That  I,  a  Churchill,  should  dream 
of  following  my  art  as  a  profession,  shocked  all 
her  prejudices;   whilst  I,  on  the  other  hand, 
entertained  a  profound  indifference  toward  all 
those   fashionable   and   matrimonial  visions   to 
which  her  present  studies  were  by  her  regarded 
as  mere  adjuncts  and  preliminaries.     And  thus, 
alas !  it  was  and  must  ever  be.     My  sister  was 
not  to  be  my  second  self,  pray  for  it,  or  strive 
for  it,  as  I  would  ! 

So  the  years  went  on,  and,  being  so  far  from 
home,  we  spent  vacation-time  as  well  as  term- 
time  at  the  college.  We  wrote  to  our  father 
about  once  in  every  three  months — he  replied 
to  us  about  twice  in  every  eight  or  ten.  His 
letters  were  always  the  same — so  much  the  same 
that  he  might  as  well  have  had  them  lithograph- 
ed. He  was  happy  to  hear  that  we  were  so  well 
satisfied  with  our  place  of  residence,  and  that  we 
gave  so  much  satisfaction  to  our  teachers ;  he 
rejoiced  to  say  that  he  was  well,  and  that  Bee- 
ver  was  the  same  as  ever ;  and  he  remained  our 
affectionate  father,  etc.  etc.  This  was  the  pur- 
port of  his  letters,  one  and  all  —  not  a  word 
more,  and  not  a  word  less. 

For  my  part,  I  had  ceased  to  care  for  home 
or  England  now.  I  felt  that  there  was  but  one 
home  in  the  old  country  that  could  ever  be 
home  to  me — and  into  that  I  had  no  hope  of 
ever  entermg  again.  To  stay  abroad,  then,  for- 
ever ;  to  work  out  my  life  in  the  land  of  Kaul- 
bach,  Overbeck,  and  Lessing ;  to  visit  Rome  and 
the  Vatican  some  time  before  I  died;  and  to 
end  my  days  within  the  walls  of  that  Academy 
of  which  I  was  a  loving  and  reverent  disciple, 
constituted  all  the  substance  of  my  prayers — 
"the  ultima  Thule  of  my  wandering  desires." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

AN   UNEXPECTED  EVENT. 

"  Has  any  thing  been  heard  about  the  ex- 
cursion ?" 


"  Yes,  we  are  to  go  to-day,  if  Madame  Bren- 
ner and  the  afternoon  continue  favorable." 

"Oh,  delightful!  I  declare  I  had  almost 
feared  that  our  country  afternoons  were  never 
to  begin  again." 

"  That  is  because  a  whole  winter  has  gone  by 
since  we  took  our  last  trip ;  and  that — let  me 
see — that  must  have  been  in  October." 

"And  we  are  now  in  the  middle  of  April  I 
Well,  never  mind,  the  summer  is  coming  again, 
and  the  time  has  not  seemed  so  very  slow,  after 
all.  Where  do  you  think  we  shall  go  ?  To 
the  Hermitage,  or  to  the  ruins  of  Konigsberg?" 
"Nay,  that  is  more  than  I  can  tell;  but  I 
should  say  to  the  woods  of  Biihl.  Professor 
Metz  was  there  the  other  day,  and  I  heard  him 
tell  Madame  Brenner  that  he  had  never  seen 

such  wild-flowers  in  his  hfe " 

"  Hush  !  Here  he  comes.  We  must  not  be 
caught  idling  !" 

And,  as  the  door  opened,  the  heads  of  the  two 
speakers  were  bent  busily  over  their  easels. 
The  Professor  came  in,  tall,  gaunt,  and  gray  ; 
stooping  somewhat  in  the  shoulders,  as  was  his  # 
habit ;  and  darting  quick,  searching  glances  all 
about  the  room.  Not  a  whisper  disturbed  the 
profound  silence  of  the  crowded  studio,  and  the 
buzzing  of  a  fly  against  the  skylight  was  dis- 
tinctly audible.  In  and  out,  threading  his  way 
among  the  easels,  the  great  master  then  made 
the  round  of  the  class.  To  some  he  gave  a 
word  of  praise,  to  some  a  shake  of  the  head, 
and  some  he  passed  by  in  silence.  Pausing 
beside  me  for  an  instant,  he  uttered  a  short 
grunt  of  approbation ;  and  the  next  moment 
bent  ever  my  unlucky  neighbor,  Emma  Werner, 
took  the  brush  from  her  hand,  and  at  a  single 
touch  effaced  the  head  upon  which  she  had  been 
toiling  all  the  morning. 

"  Oh,  sir !"  she  exclaimed,  "  is  it  so  bad  aa 
that  ?" 

"  Bad  ?"  he  repeated.  "  So  bad  that  I  have 
more  hope  for  you  than  before.  Signal  failures 
imply  genius.  A  fool  would  have  done  better." 
And  with  this  equivocal  encouragement,  and 
a  still  more  equivocal  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  he 
passed  on. 

"  That  cherub,"  said  he  to  one,  "  has  the 
scarlet  fever." 

To  another  : — "  Your  Hagar  looks  like  a 
female  Ugolino.  'Tis  a  baker's  conception  of 
the  subject," 

To  a  third  : — "  This  foreground  labors  under 
a  green  and  yellow  melancholy!" 

To  a  fourth  : — "  Your  Madonna  is  a  coquette." 
To  a  fifth  : — "  What  is  your  subject — Bacchus 
and  Ariadne  ?     Humph  !     Which  is  Bacchus, 
and  which  Ariadne  ?" 

At  last,  having  finished  his  tour  of  inspection, 
he  came  back  to  where  Ida  and  I  were  working 
side  by  side,  and  stood  for  some  time  between 
the  two  easels,  silent  and  observant.  We  were 
copying  a  head  of  Christ  by  Guido,  which  the 
Grand  Duke  had  lent  for  the  advanced  stu- 
dents. 

"It  is  possible,"  said  he,  presently,  "to  copy 
too  well.  Try  to  think  less  of  the  painting, 
and  more  of  the  idea.  Truth  is  not  necessarily 
literal.  The  Divine  never  can  be  literal ;  and 
there  is  in  all  art  a  vanishing  point  where  the 
real  merges  itself  into  the  ideal.  Have  courage, 
and  remember  that  to  attempt  much  is  to  learn 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


m 


much.  The  horizon  mounts  with  the  eye  of  the 
climber." 

Having  said  this,  he  strode  to  the  door; 
bowed  hurriedly  ;  and  was  gone  in  a  moment. 
"We  had  all  risen  in  silence  to  return  his  saluta- 
tion ;  but  the  door  was  no  sooner  closed  behind 
him  than  a  Babel  of  chatter  broke  out,  and 
every  body  was  in  motion.  This  afternoon  visit 
concluded  the  day's  work,  and  the  Professor's 
exit  gave  the  signal  for  breaking  up  the  class. 
In  an  instant  all  was  confusion,  laughter,  and 
bustle.  Paintings  were  laid  aside,  easels  shut 
np,  brushes  washed,  pallets  cleaned,  and  copies 
put  careriUy  away  ;  while  in  the  midst  of  it  all 
came  a  message  from  Madame  Brenner,  desiring 
us  to  be  ready  to  start  at  three  o'clock  upon  an 
excursion  to  the  woods  of  Briihl. 

With  what  shouts  and  hand-clappings  this 
information  was  received ;  how  quic^y  the 
studio  was  put  in  order  ;  what  haste  we  made  to 
dress ;  and  with  what  delight  we  poured  out  of 
the  courtyard  and  took  the  road  to  Briihl,  none 
but  those  who  have  lived  in  schools  and  enjoyed 
half-holidays  can  conceive.  Ida  and  I  walked 
together,  and  Hilda,  as  usual,  with  the  French 
governess,  Mademoiselle  Violette.  Whether  she 
chose  her  companion  from  preference,  or 
whether,  being  one  of  the  elder  girls,  she 
thought  it  more  dignified  to  be  seen  walking 
with  a  teacher,  I  can  not  tell — I  only  know  that 
Mademoiselle  Violette  was  a  little  elderly,  frivo- 
lous, conceited  Parisian,  who  talked  of  nothing 
but  her  high  birth,  her  misfortunes,  her  lover 
who  died  abroad,  and  her  everlasting  toilette. 

Having  walked  very  soberly,  two  by  two,  all 
through  the  town  and  along  the  public  road,  we 
broke  up  the  order  of  march  as  soon  as  we 
arrived  at  the  low  meadows,  and  became  a  very 
noisy  company.  Our  way  lay  mostly  beside  the 
river.  The  trees  were  clad  in  their  first  pale 
feathery  foliage  ;  the  afternoon  was  hot  and 
sunny  like  an  afternoon  in  July  ;  and  the  swal- 
lows were  darting  hither  and  thither,  as  if  they 
knew  not  how  to  rejoice  enough  in  the  returning 
summer. 

The  woods  lay  between  two  and  three  miles 
to  the  west  of  the  town,  and  we  reached  them 
about  half-past  four  o'clock.  How  pleasant  to 
plunge  into  the  shade,  after  walking  for  an  hour 
and  a  half  with  the  sun  in  Qur  faces !  How 
delicious  to  tread  the  elastic  moss  between 
the  trees ;  to  lie  down  upon  banks  literally 
mantled  over  with  primroses,  blue  hyacinths, 
and  the  wild  geranium ;  to  watch  the  shafts  of 
sunlight  piercing  the  green  gloom  here  and  there, 
and  gilding  the  smooth  boles  of  the  silver  ash  ! 
Intoxicated  with  delight,  we  laughed,  we  ran, 
we  pelted  each  other  with  wild  flowers,  and 
made  the  woods  ring  again  with  the  echoes  of 
our  voices.  By  and  by,  being  somewhat  warm 
and  weary,  we  strolled  away  by  twos  and  threes, 
and  found  resting-places  and  green  nooks  to 
our  fancy.  An  old  felled  trunk  coated  with 
gray  moss,  furnished  Ida  and  me  with  a  seat ; 
and  there,  at  some  little  distance  from  the  rest, 
we  sat  hand  in  hand,  and  talked,  aS  only  the 
young  ever  talk,  of  art,  friendship,  and  the 
future. 

"  It  was  our  old  Frauenkirche  in  Munich  that 
made  me  an  artist,"  said  Ida.  "  From  the  time 
when  I  was  quite  a  little  child,  and  my  mother 
used  to  carry  me  in  her  arms  to  mass,  I  remem- 


ber the  bronze  tomb  of  the  Emperor  Louis,  and 
the  painted  windows  behind  the  altar.  I  was 
never  weary  of  gazing  up  at  those  gorgeous 
kings  and  saints.  I  remember,  also,  how  the 
evening  sun  used  to  shine  through,  and  stain  the 
pavement  of  the  side-aisles  with  flecks  of  purple 
and  gold.  I  believe  that  my  very  soul  thirsted 
for  color,  and  that  my  eyes  drank  it  in  as  eager- 
ly as  ever  wayfarer  drank  from  the  springs  of 
the  desert.  I  little  thought  at  that  time  that  I 
should  ever  come  to  handle  it  familiarly,  and 
make  it  the  medium  of  my  own  thoughts  !" 

"But  you  hoped  to  be  a  painter  from  the 
first  ?" 

"  No.  My  parents  were  humble  folks,  and 
chance  alone  determined  my  career." 

"  Chance  !     What  chance,  Ida  ?" 

*'I  will  tell  you.  My  father  kept  a  small 
fruit-garden  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Isar,  about 
three-quarters  of  a  mile  out  of  Munich  on  the 
Harlaching  road.  Our  house  stood  by  the  way- 
side, and  from  the  back  we  had  a  view  of  the 
Tyrolean  Alps.  We  were  very  poor.  The  pro- 
duce of  the  garden  barely  sufficed  to  keep  us, 
though  the  land  and  cottage  were  our  own ;  and 
in  the  winter  time  we  suffered  many  privations. 
Still  my  childhood  passed  very  happily.  I  went 
to  the  Free-school  every  day,  and  to  Mass  every 
Sunday  and  Saint' s-day;  and  each  October, 
when  the  People's  festival  came  round,  my 
parents  made  holiday,  and  took  me  with  them 
to  see  the  prize  fruits  and  flowers,  and  the  rifle- 
shooting  in  the  Theresa-fields.  Thus  the  years 
went  by,  and  at  thirteen  I  was  less  ignorant 
than  might  h^ve  been  supposed.  About  this 
time,  having  by  dint  of  severe  economy  saved  a 
score  or  so  of  dollars,  my  parents  contrived  to 
furnish  and  let  our  two  best  rooms.  Our  first 
lodger  was  a  clerk  from  some  banking-house  in 
the  town,  who  went  in  to  business  every  morn- 
ing, and  remained  away  all  day.  However,  he 
only  staid  with  us  about  three  months,  and 
was  succeeded  by  an  English  artist,  who  had 
come  to  study  in  the  galleries  of  Munich.  This 
artist  discovered,  somehow,  that  I  loved  art ;  be- 
came interested  in  me ;  gave  me  a  few  lessons, 
and — and  taught  me,  in  short,  to  know  my  own 
destiny." 

"  Well  ?"  said  I,  finding  that  she  paused  in 
her  narrative. 

"  Well,  it  went  on  thus  for  a  year  or  more, 
till  one  day  ray  kind  friend  suggested  that  I 
should  become  a  candidate  for  one  of  the  free 
scholarships  of  the  Zollenstrasse  School  of  Art, 
and  himself  offered  to  defray  the  expenses  of 
election.  I  made  the  effort — I  succeeded — I 
have  been  here,  as  you  know,  five  years  already, 
and  I  have  two  more  years  to  remain." 

"And  the  English  artist — where  is  he?  Do 
you  ever  hear  from  him  ?  Have  you  seen  him 
since  you  left  Munich  ?" 

Ida  shook  her  head,  and  turned  her  face 
away. 

"He  went  back  soon  after,  to  his  native 
country,"  she  said,  "and  we  have  heard  nothing 
of  him  from  that  day  to  this.  But  it  is  your 
turn  now,  Barbara.  Tell  me,  when  did  you  first 
recognize  your  vocation  ?" 

"In  my  cradle,  I  think,"  I  replied,  with  a 
smile  and  a  sigh.  "  Before  I  could  speak  plain- 
ly, I  scrawled  with  a  pencil :  and  when  I  was 
quite  a  little  girl  I  oould  see  more  faces  in  the 


68 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


clouds,  and  more  pictures  in  the  fire,  than  either 
of  my  sisters.  I  never  studied,  however,  till  I 
came  here." 

"And  that,"  exclaimed  Ida," was  at  the  very 
same  time  that  I  joined,  six  years  ago  ?" 

"Precisely." 

"  And  you  are  one  year  younger  than  I  ?" 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  "  I  am  just  seventeen,  and 
you  are  eighteen.  You  have  the  advantage  of 
me  in  every  way.  You  had  a  year's  teaching 
before  you  came  here." 

"Bah!  What  is  that?  I  have  not  half  your 
genius !" 

"  Nay — if  you  talk  thus  we  shall  quarrel." 

"  For  the  first  time,  Barbara !"  laughed  Ida, 
putting  her  arms  about  my  neck.  "For  the 
first  time !  Besides,  you  know,  we  have  prom- 
ised each  other  never  to  disagree — never  to  love 
each  other  less — never  to  let  any  thing  come 
between  us,  either  in  our  friendship  or  our 
future !" 

"  Do  you  suppose,  Ida,  that  I  forget  it?" 

"And  then,"  continued  she,  "we  shall  some 
day  go  to  Rome  together — Rome,  the  artist's 
Paradise  1  We  shall  lodge  among  the  painters 
in  the  Via  Margutta,  and  go  to  the  artists'  festi- 
val at  Albano.  We  will  hire  a  studio ;  paint 
together;  study  together;  wander  together  in 
the  ruins  of  the  Forum,  and  under  the  moonlit 
arches  of  the  Coliseum !  Oh,  Barbara,  does  it 
not  make  your  heart  beat  to  think  of  it  ?" 

"  Alas !  dear,  I  am  not  so  confident.  Could 
I  but  believe  it  possible " 

"  To  those  who  rely  upon  their  own  industry, 
all  things  are  possible."  . 

"  A  most  sententious  maxim;  but  how  shall 
I  apply  it  ?" 

"  You  shall  apply  it  by — ^let  me  see,  by 
painting  a  great  historical  picture,  a  masterpiece 
of  modern  art!" 

"Oh,  by  all  means!" 

*'  And  the  Grand  Duke  must  buy  it — stay,  he 
could  not  afford  to  buy  it.  It  will  be  too  expen- 
sive for  him ;  and,  besides,  if  he  did  buy  it, 
where  could  he  put  it  ?  No — no.  King  Louis  of 
Bavaria  must  buy  it !  He  will  give  you  two  or 
three  thousand  dollars  for  it,  and  it  will  be  hung 
in  the  modern  Pinacothek,  in  my  ovra  dear  city 
of  Munich,  where  all  the  world  will  see  and  do 
it  justice." 

"  I  desire  nothing  better.     Pray  go  on," 

"  Well,  with  your  three  thousand  dollars  you 
can  go  to  Rome,  and  voild — the  thing  is  done." 

"  Would  that  it  were,  Ida !"  I  exclaimed, 
laughing.  "  Unfortunately,  however,  something 
more  than  self-reliance  is  necessary  to  carry  out 
this  admirable  project.  At  present,  yours  is  but 
a  programme,  with  no  entertainment  to  follow." 

"  That  does  not  prove  that  the  entertainment 
never  will  follow.  Oh,  I  have  set  my  heart  on 
seeing  you  famous !" 

"  Come,  Barbara,"  said  Hilda  close  behind  me. 
"We  are  all  going,  and  I  suppose  you  do  not 
wish  to  be  left  in  the  woods." 

"  What,  already  ?" 

"  It  is  six  o'clock,  and  will  be  dusk  before  we 
reach  home,"  replied  my  sister  coldly.  Then, 
dropping  her  voice  so  as  to  be  heard  by  me 
only  : — "  What  folly  have  you  been  talking  ?" 
she  added.  "I  have  been  standing  here  these 
five  minutes,  listening  with  amazement  to  all 
this  nonsense  about  Rome  and  fame,  and  Heaven 


knows  what  besides !  One  would  think  you 
were  a  free  scholar,  hke  your  dear  friend  here, 
and  had  to  work  for  your  bread  !" 

"One  may  work  for  something  better  than 
bread,  sister,"  I  replied  smiling. 

But  she  turned  angrily  away,  and  we  were 
presently  surrounded  by  a  troop  of  the  younger 
girls,  all  shouting  and  dancing,  and  laden  with 
wild-flowers,  like  a  bevy  of  little  bacchantes. 

"  Look  here,  Ida,"  said  one.  "  Here  is  a 
daisy-chain  that  would  reach  across  the  river  I 
Did  you  ever  see  one  so  long  ?" 

"  I  have  found  a  lovely  maiden-hair  fern,  roots 
and  all,  for  Madame  Brenner's  fernery!"  cried 
another. 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  a  third,  "I  know  some- 
thing which  none  of  you  know  —  such  good 
news !" 

"  Good  news !"  repeated  a  dozen  voices  at  oace. 
"  What  is  it  ?     Oh,  what  is  it  ?" 

"  Guess — but  you'll  never  guses.  Shall  I  tell 
you?  Well,  we  are  to  have  chocolate  and 
cream-cakes  for  supper  !'* 

And  thus,  chattering,  laughing,  and  rejoicing,  * 
the  merry  crowd  swept  on  homeward,  and  left 
the  setting  sun  behind  the  woods  of  Briihl.  By 
and  by  some  elder  girls  began  singing  four-part 
songs  ;  and  then  the  twilight  came  down  ;  and 
the  stars  gleamed  out  in  the  green-blue  sky; 
and  the  music  mingled  in  with  the  lapsing  of  the 
river  that  ran  beside  us  all  the  way. 

It  was  almost  dark  by  the  time  we  reached 
the  college.  We  were  tired  and  silent  enough 
now,  and  the  wild-flowers  had  all  been  thrown 
away  on  the  road.  Still  we  were  very  happy, 
very  hungry,  very  glad  to  be  home  again,  and 
very  glad  to  have  been  out. 

The  porter  who  opened  the  gate  touched  his 
hat  and  spoke  to  Madame  Brenner.  She  left 
him,  and  came  quickly  into  the  midst  of  us. 

■"Barbara,"  said  she,  "Barbara  and  Hilda 
Churchill,  where  are  you?  Some  friends  of 
yours  are  here.  You  will  find  them  waiting  in 
the  parlor." 

Friends  !  Who  could  they  be  ?  Whence  had 
they  come?  Save  a  flying  call  two  or  three 
years  ago  from  dear  old  Mr.  Bose,  no  one  had 
asked  for  us  ever  since  we  had  been  in  the»Col- 
lege  !  Could  it  be  my  aunt  ?  Could  it  be  Hugh  ? 
I  felt  myself  flush,  and  then  grow  pale  again. 
Going  up  the  steps,  I  clung  involuntarily  to 
Hilda's  arm,  and  when  we  reached  the  parlor- 
door  trembled  like  a  leaf. 

The  room  was  dimly  lighted,  and  contained 
two  persons,  a  lady  and  a  gentleman.  The  lady 
was  lying  back  in  an  easy  chair,  and  turned  her 
head  languidly  at  the  opening  of  the  door.  The 
gentleman  was  standing  at  the  window  with  his 
hands  behind  his  back. 

"  Madame,"  said  he,  addressing  himself  with  a 
stately  bow  to  Madame  Brenner,  "permit  me  to 
introduce  myself — Edmimd  Churchill — ^the  father 
of  your  pupils." 

The  superintendent  courtesied,  and  looked 
from  him  to  us,  expecting  to  see  us  fly  into  his 
arms.  My  father,  however,  bowed  again  and 
glanced  toward  the  occupant  of  the  easy  chair, 
who  rose  slowly,  and  threw  back  her  vail. 

"And  Mrs.  Churchill,"  added  he  very  cere^ 
moniously.  He  then  turned  toward  us  for  the 
first  time. 

"  My  dear  children,"  said  he,  toucliing  our 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


69 


foreheads  lightly  with  his  lips,  "  I  rejoice  to  see 
you  again.  Be  pleased  to  receive  this  lady  with 
the  affection  and  respect  due  to — ahem !  your 
father's  wife.  Mrs.  Churchill,  I  have  the  pleas- 
ure of  presenting  my  daughters." 

But  that  lady,  instead  of  embracing  us  with 
maternal  fervor,  extended  only  the  tips  of  two 
fingers,  and  said : 

"  I  had  no  idea  that  your  *  little  girls '  were 
grown  up,  Mr.  Churchill !" 


CHAPTER  XX. 

HILDA   DISCOVERS   HER   TOCATION. 

And  so  my  father  had  married  again — ^married 
again  at  sixty,  and  brought  his  bride  to  Zollen- 
strasse-am-Main !  It  was  theu*  honeyijioon. 
They  had  come  up  the  Rhine  vid  Brussels,  and 
were  returning  by  way  of  Paris ;  having  at 
present  been  just  ten  days  en  voyage.  This  event 
was  so  unexpected  that  at  first  I  could  scarcely 
realize  it.  It  took  me,  in  fact,  some  two  or 
three  days  to  form  an  opinion  of  my  father's 
choice,  and  in  order  to  express  that  opinion  I 
find  myself  referring  not  exactly  to  my  first  im- 
pression, but  to  the  successive  impressions  of 
several  interviews. 

Mrs.  Churchill  was  what  is  generally  callpd  a 
fine  woman.  That  is  to  say,  she  was  large,  well 
defined  and  of  a  comely  presence.  She  was 
about  forty  years  of  age.  Her  hands  were  small, 
her  teeth  admirable,  her  complexion  well-pre- 
served, and  her  taste  in  dress  unexceptionable. 
Easy,  indolent,  self-possessed,  and  somewhat 
distant,  her  manner  was  that  of  a  thorough 
woman  of  the  world — or  rather  that  of  a  woman 
who  knew  the  world  and  herself  by  heart,  and 
had  determined  to  make  the  raost  of  both.  She 
was  not  clever — I  soon  discovered  that — but  slfe 
had  tact.  She  knew  what  to  admire,  what  tastes 
to  profess,  and  how  to  give  them  effect.  She 
spoke  seldom,  always  slowly,  and  never  unless 
she  really  had  something  to  say.  That  some- 
thing, if  clever,  was  not  original;  and,  if 
original,  was  not  clever  ;  but  it  was  invariably 
judicious,  and,  like  a  paper 'currency,  represent- 
ed a  value  which  was  not  intrinsic.  Above  all, 
she  had  studied  the  art  of  silence,  and  knew 
how  to  maintain  a  dignified  repose.  If  that  re- 
pose seemed  somewhat  artificial  and  over-elabo- 
rated— if  she  was,  perhaps,  on  the  whole,  more 
fastidious  than  refined,  more  fashionable  than 
highly  bred,  she  could,  nevertheless,  be  sufficient- 
ly gracious  when  she  pleased,  and  was,  beyond 
all  doubt,  well  accustomed  to  the  ways,  means, 
and  appliances  of  that  little  corner  of  society 
called  "  the  world," 

That  she  had  also  been  previously  married — 
that  her  first  husband  held  a  civil  appointment 
in  India  under  Lord  Amherst,  and  there  accu- 
mulated a  considerable  fortune — that  he  had 
been  dead  some  fifteen  years  or  so,  and  left  her 
with  a  consolatory  jointure  of  several  hundreds 
per  annum — that  she  had  since  then  traveled 
hither  and  thither;  gone  extensively  into  so- 
ciety ;  spent  every  season  in  Paris ;  and  pre- 
ferred the  interesting  role  of  a  wealthy  widow- 
to  that  of  a  wife  twice  wedded,  were  facts  which 
we  soon  learned,  and  which  she  herself  was  not 
slow  to  announce.    Where  and  when  she  had 


first  Snown  my  father,  how  she  came  to  be 
wearied  of  her  single  life,  and  why  she  married 
him,  were  points  left  to  conjecture.  One  thing, 
however,  was  evident  —  namely,  that  she  was 
not  prepared  to  find  his  "  little  girls"  grown  up  ; 
and  I  believe,  to  do  him  justice,  that  he  was 
almost  as  much  surprised  himself  We  were 
really  little  girls  when  he  left  us,  six  years  ago, 
on  board  the  Rotterdam  steamer,  and  little  girls, 
I  have  no  doubt,  he  still  expected  to  find  us. 
Be  that  as  it  may,  Mrs.  Churchill  was  undis- 
guisedly  chagrined,  and  treated  us  for  the  first 
day  or  so  with  mortifying  coldness.  There  is, 
however,  a  proverb  in  favor  of  second  thoughts ; 
and  before  a  week  was  past,  Mrs.  Churchill  had 
seen  fit  to  reverse  her  tactics.  Looking  upon  us, 
I  suppose,  as  inevitable  evils,  she  made  up  her 
mind  to  endure  ue  with  the  best  grace  she  could, 
and  became,  on  a  sudden,  quite  sympathetic  and 
pleasant.  Sh§  discovered  that  I  had  genius  and 
originality  ;  that  Hilda's  beauty  and  accomplish- 
ments were  of  the  highest  order ;  and  that  she 
(Mrs.  Churchill)  was  unfeignedly  proud  of  us 
both.  I  can  not  say  that  I  was  particularly 
elated  by  this  tardy  reception  into  my  step- 
mother's good  graces.  I  had  neither  sufficient 
respect  for  her  understanding  to  value  her 
praise,  nor  enough  regard  for  herself  to  care 
much  for  her  favor.  But  I  received  her  advances 
with  politeness,  and  endeavored,  for  my  father's 
sake,  to  keep  on  such  terms  as  might  insure 
the  comfort  of  our  future  intercourse. 

Hilda,  on  the  contrary,  was  completely  won 
over  by  Mrs.  Churchill's  civilities,  and  tolerably 
well  imposed  upon  by  Mrs.  Churchill's  admirable 
manner.  Having  at  first  disliked  our  new  step- 
mother ten  times  more  bitterly  than  myself,  she 
now  found  that  she  had  judged  too  hastily  of 
dfce  who  compared  her  singing  to  Persiani's  and 
herself  to  Lady  Clementina  Villiers.  Thus  it 
happened  that  in  the  course  of  a  few  days  they 
were  on  the  best  footing  imaginable ;  and  be- 
fore the  second  week  was  over,  had  become 
almost  inseparable.  Mrs.  Churchill  declared 
that  she  could  go  nowhere  without  Hilda  — 
Hilda  was  only  too  well  pleased  to  go  every- 
where with  Mrs.  Churchill.  So  they  lunched, 
dined,  and  drove  out  together  every  day,  more 
like  a  pair  of  romantic  friends  than  a  middle- 
aged  bride  and  a  grown-up  step-daughter.  It 
is  not  impossible  that  Mrs.  Churchill  may  have 
foreseen  some  such  desirable  effect,  and  acted 
accordingly. 

Naturally  fond  of  excitement,  Hilda  plunged 
with  delight  into  this  new  life,  and  neglected 
every  thing  for  it.  Mrs.  Churchill's  Paris 
bonnets,  Mrs.  Churchill's  fashionable  acquaint- 
ances, and  Mrs.  Churchill's  patronage,  almost 
turned  her  head.  She  talked,  thought,  dreamed 
of  nothing  but  dress,  amusement,  and  the  people 
whom  she  daily  met.  Remonstrance  on  my  part 
was  useless;  for  Madame  Brenner,  knowing 
that  my  father  intended  to  remam  only  a  month, 
thought  fit  to  allow  us  every  liberty  during  his 
stay,  and  voluntarily  released  us  from  our  col- 
legiate duties.  To  her  surprise,  I  availed  my- 
self but  sparingly  of  that  privilege,  pursuing  my 
daily  studies  much  as  usual,  and  only  spend- 
ing an  evening  now  and  then  at  my  father's 
hotel. 

Going  in  there  one  afternoon  about  seven 
o'clock,  I  found  the  dessert  still  on  the  table ; 


60 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


Hilda  trying  on  a  bonnet  before  the  glass ;  my 
father  sipping  his  wine  with  half-closed  eyes; 
and  Mrs.  Churchill  lying  on  a  sofa  with  her  back 
to  •  the  light ;  and  her  head  resting  languidly 
on  her  arm.  Mrs.  Churchill  always  sat  with  her 
back  to  the  light ;  and,  having  a  white  and  very 
lovely  arm,  generally  rested  her  head  upon  it. 

My  father  looked  up  and  nodded  as  I  came 
in ;  Mrs.  Churchill  extended  two  fingers ;  Hilda 
turned    eagerly  toward   me,  and  exclaimed : — 

*'  Oh,  Barbara,  you  are  just  in  time  to  see  my 
new  bonnet !     Is  it  not  charming  ?" 

"  Yours  1"  I  ejaculated,  seeing  what  a  thing  of 
gauze  and  marabouts  it  was.  "  That  bonnet, 
yours  ?" 

*'Mine — my  own  exclusive  property!  Is  it 
not  becoming?" 

I  hesitated.  I  had  not  yet  reconciled  myself 
to  the  metamorphosis  in  my  sister's  appearance ; 
and  though  she  looked  handsomer  than  ever  in 
these  fashionable  things,  I  could  not  help  liking 
her  old  simple  clothing  best. 

"  It  is  stylish,"  I  said,  after  a  pause,  "  and,  in 
a  certain  sense,  becoming ;   but " 

"  But  what  ?" 

"But  I  do  not  see  of  what  use  it  will  be  to 
you  when  Mrs.  Churchill  is  no  longer  here." 

Hilda  and  my  stepmother  exchanged  glances. 

"In  fact,"  I  continued,  "Madame  Brenner 
will  taboo  it,  as  she  tabooed  Ildegarde's  pink 
mantle  last  midsummer. 

Hilda  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  Cela  m'est  egalV  she  said  lightly.  "I  will, 
at  all  events,  wear  it  while  I  can,  and  where  I 
can.  Sufficient  for  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof — 
rCest  ce  pas,  ma  belle  mere  .^" 

Mrs.  Churchill  nodded  a  languid  affirmative, 
and  Hilda  went  on. 

"  What  would  be  the  good  of  the  present*' 
said  she,  "if  one  were  always  fretting  for  the 
future  ?  Let  the  future  take  care  of  itself.  It 
is  bad  enough  when  it  comes,  without  being  an- 
ticipated !" 

"  The  future,"  said  Mrs.  Churchill,  significant- 
ly, "  sometimes  exceeds  our  anticipations.  But 
our  dear  Barbara  is  practical  —  immensely  prac- 
tical!" 

"  Only  with  respect  to  bonnets,"  I  replied, 
laughingly.  "  In  other  matfers,  I  fear,  I  am  as 
visionary  as  most  people." 

"I  should  like  to  know  what  those  other  mat- 
are." 

"  Nay  —  I  am  not  fond  of  telling  my  dreams  !" 

"  Except  to  Ida  Saxe  by  sunset,  in  the  woods 
of  Briihl,"  (wid  Hilda  satirically.  "  Come,  Bar- 
bara, confess  that,  on  one  occasion,  you  were 
any  thing  but  practical." 

But  I  was  not  disposed  to  enter  on  that  sub- 
ject before  my  father  and  his  wife ;  so  I  only 
shook  my  head,  and  turned  the  conversation  by 
asking  what  they  had  done  since  the  morning. 

"  Done  ?  Oh,  not  much  to-day,"  replied  my 
sister,  still  admiring  the  bonnet.  "  We  prome- 
naded in  the  gardens  before  lunch,  drove  to 
Wiesbach  in  the  afternoon  with  papa,  and  dined 
at  six.    Why  did  you  not  come  in  time  to  dine  ?" 

"  The  class  broke  up  late  to-day,  and  I  could 
not  leave  sooner," 

Hilda  tossed  her  head  impatiently. 

"  Be  honest,  Barbara,"  said  she,  "  and  say  at 
once  that  you  prefer  the  society  of  your  easel 
to  that  of  your  relations." 


"Be  considerate,  Hilda;  and  remember  that 
satire  is  often  neither  witty  nor  true." 

I  answered  sharply;  for  it  seemed  to  me, 
somehow,  that  my  sister  was  seeking  either  to 
provoke  me,  or  to  irritate  the  others  against 
me.  Be  this  as  it  might,  Mrs.  Churchill  inter- 
posed before  she  had  time  to  retort. 

"  My  darling  Hilda,"  said  she,  "I  must  posi- 
tively find  fault  with  you !  Why  blame  your 
sister  for  a  perseverance  that  does  her  so  much 
honor  ?  Our  dear  Barbara  has  genius,  and  the 
enthusiasm  of  genius.  For  my  part,  I  adore 
art.  I  had  rather  have  been  Raphael  than 
Shakspeare." 

This  was  one  of  Mrs.  Churchill's  "  effects."  I 
began  to  know  them  now,  and  the  little  pause 
by  which  they  were  always  followed. 

"Besides,"  she  added,  after  a  minute,  "Bar- 
bara is  still  very  young,  and  youth  is  the  season 
for  study.  Her  industry,  I  am  sure,  is  delight- 
ful. Perfectly  delightful !  Let  us  hope,  how- 
ever, that  she  will  not  overtax  her  strength. 
Art  has  its  dangers  as  well  as  its  fascinations  ; 
and  I  have  heard  that  oils  are  sometimes  bad 
for  the  chest." 

Laughing,  I  scarcely  knew  why,  at  something 
in  the  tone  of  Mrs.  Churchill's  observations,  I 
hastened  to  assure  her  that  she  need  entertain 
no  such  apprehensions  for  me. 

"Painters,"  I  said,  "do  not  die  so  easily. 
When  they  love  art,  they  have  the  good  sense  to 
live  for  it." 

"And  you  really  do  love  it,  I  suppose?"  said 
my  stepmother  interrogatively. 

"  With  my  whole  heart." 

"And  prefer  your  studies  to  all  the  pleasures 
of  the  great  world  ?" 

"I  can  conceive  no  greater  misfortune  than  to 
leave  them  off." 

Again  Mrs.  Churchill  and  Hilda  glanced  at 
one  another,  and  I  detected  something  like  a 
flitting  smile  upon  the  face  of  each. 

My  father,  who  had  been  dozing  for  the  last 
ten  minutes  or  so  with  his  cheek  on  his  palm, 
now  woke  up  and  looked  at  his  watch. 

"A  quarter  to  eight !"  said  he.  "  A  quarter 
to  eight  already  !  Will  it  be  agreeable  to  you, 
Mrs.  Churchill,  to  order  coffee  ?" 

Mrs.  Churchill  was  agreeable,  and  Hilda  rang 
the  bell. 

My  father  was  the  same  as  ever — -a  little 
stouter  and'  greyer,  perhaps,  and  a  little  more 
bald  than  when  we  left  home ;  but  the  same 
man,  every  inch.  He  paced  about  the  room ; 
glanced  in  the  looking-glass ;  and  cherished  his 
handsome  hands  just  in  the  old  way.  He  ad- 
dressed his  wife  with  as  much  stately  politeness 
as  he  once  addressed  Miss  Whymper.  He  was 
irritable  with  the  waiters ;  despotic  with  the  fly- 
drivers;  and  courteous  to  the  chamber-maids. 
Above  all,  he  planted  himself  on  the  rug,  and 
turned  his  back  to  the  fire  with  exactly  the  same 
air  of  commanding  ownership ;  even  though 
there  were  no  fire  there,  but  only  an  ugly,  empty 
porcelain  stove,  with  a  blackened  chimney 
reaching  through  the  ceiling. 

Having  had  coffee,  and  discussed  the  com- 
parative attractions  of  the  summer  theater,  the 
Hofgarten,  and  the  concert  in  the  grounds  of 
the  Conversation-Haus,  Mrs.  Churchill  and  Hilda 
made  an  elaborate  walking-toilette,  and  insisted 
that  I,  for  once,  should  make  one  of  the  party. 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


61 


My  father,  not  without  a  dissatisfied  glance  at 
my  plain  brown  dress,  then  gave  his  arm  to 
Mrs,  Churchill,  and  we  followed. 

What  with  her  new  bonnet,  and  a  lace  shawl 
lent  by  our  stepmother  ;  and  what  with  her  own 
rich,  haughty  beauty,  Hilda  attracted  all  eyes,  as 
we  went  along.  Every  one  turned  to  stare  after 
her;  and  my  father,  proud  of  the  general  ad- 
miration, glanced  back  every  now  and  then  with 
a  well-satisfied  smile,  as  if  saying  —  "  I  am  Ed- 
mund Churchill,  and  she  is  my  daughter  —  my 
daughter,  sir,  and  a  Churchill,  pur  sang  /" 

Once  arrived  at  the  gardens,  we  were  beset 
by  a  crowd  of  gentlemen. 

"  Friends  of  Mrs.  Churchill,"  whispered  Hil- 
da. "And  people  of  the  highest  fashion." 
She  knew  them  all  as  they  came  up ;  had  the 
name,  rank,  and  profession  of  each  at  her  fin- 
gers' ends;  and  seemed  already  intimate  with 
most.  Some  she  greeted  with  a  jest,  som^with 
a  shake  of  the  hand,  and  for  all  had  a  bow,  a 
smile,  or  a  gracious  word.  I  listened,  looked 
on,  and  scarce  believed  my  eyes.  Ten  days  ago 
she  was  but  a  school-girl.  Now  I  found  her  de- 
veloped all  at  once  into  a  consummate  flirt; 
conscious  of  her  advantages ;  and  as  thoroughly 
at  her  ease  as  Mrs.  Churchill  herself. 

I  cannot  say  that  I  was  agreeably  impressed 
by  Mrs.  Churchill's  distinguished  acquaintances ; 
and  yet  they  were  very  grand  folks,  Counts,  Ba- 
rons, ExceUencies,  and  so  forth,  with  nothing 
less  dignified  than  a  captain  among  them.  They 
were  all  bearded,  buttoned,  frogged,  and  mus- 
tachioed, and  wore  little  scraps  of  red  or  green 
ribbon  at  their  breast.  Perhaps  the  most  strik- 
ing amongst  them,  was  a  certain  Captain  Talbot, 
some  thirty-five  years  of  age  and  six  feet  two  in 
height ;  bronzed,  stalwart,  assiduous ;  with  some- 
thing infinitely  persuasive  in  his  voice  and  man- 
ner, and  something  unpleasantly  bold  in  the  ex- 
pression of  his  eyes.  I  liked  him  less,  and 
Hilda  seemed  to  like  him  better,  than  any  of 
the  rest.  They  kept  up  an  incessant  fire  of  rail- 
lery and  flirtation ;  and  by-and-by,  when,  weary 
of  promenading,  we  sat  down  to  eat  ices  and 
listen  to  the  music,  he  usurped  the  seat  be- 
side hers,  and  succeeded  in  keeping  all  others  at 
a  distance.  Then  my  father  strolled  away  to 
the  roulette-tables  ;  and  Mrs.  Churchill  sat  like 
a  queen  amid  her  little  court,  and  gave  utter- 
ance every  now  and  then  to  judicious  observa- 
tions on  Rossini,  politics,  millinery,  and  the  fine 
arts. 

Thus  the  evening  passed,  and  I  was  glad  when 
it  was  over. 

All  that  night,  and  for  several  days  and  nights 
following,  I  was  restless  and  disquieted.  I  now 
scarcely  saw  Hilda  at  all,  unless  in  the  refectory 
at  breakfast,  or  at  night  when  she  came  in  late 
and  tired,  after  having  spent  the  day  with  Mrs. 
Churchill. 

"How  will  she  endure  the  old  life,  when  they 
are  gone  ?"  I  asked  myself  continually.  "  How 
will  she  exist  without  excitement  ?  What  of 
these  fashionable  men  with  whom  she  has  been 
flirting  for  the  last  three  weeks  ?  How  will 
she  conform  again  to  the  old  rules  and  simple 
pleasures  of  she  school  ?" 

Troubled  and  apprehensive,  I  turned  these 
questions  over  and  over  in  my  mind,  and  could 
arrive  at  no  conclusion. 

"Would  that  they  were  gone  !"  I  murmured 


anxiously,  as  I  saw  the  evil  deepening  day  by 
day.  "  Would  to  Heaven  that  they  had  never 
come !" 

At  length  there  arrived  a  night  when  my 
doubts  were  brought  to  an  abrupt  conclusion. 
It  was  the  evening  of  the  twenty-fifth  of  May, 
and  my  father's  departure  was  fixed  for  the  twen- 
ty-seventh. Hilda  had  been  all  day  with  them 
as  usual ;  the  rest  of  the  girls  were  gone  for  an 
evening  walk;  and  I,  tired  and  thoughtful,  sat 
alone  in  the  deserted  class-room,  looking  out  at 
the  quiet  garden  and  the  gathering  twilight, 
The  banging  of  a  distant  door,  the  echo  of  a 
quick  step  in  the  corridor,  and  Hilda's  sudden 
appearance  at  my  elbow,  roused  me  from  my 
reverie. 

"  Well,  Barbara,"  said  she,  "  are  you  not  sur- 
prised to  see  me  so  early?" 

"  It  is  early,"  I  replied,  "  for  you ;  but  I  sup- 
pose you  are  going  back  to  spend  the  evening." 
"  No,  I  have  come,  on  the  contrary,  to  spend 
the  evening  with  you  and  Madame  Brenner. 
What  do  you  think  of  that  ?" 

"  Why,  that  wonders  will  never  cease  ;  or  that 
you  are  jesting." 

"  I  am  in  earnest,  I  assure  you." 
"  Then  papa  is  not  going  away  the  day  after 
to-morrow." 

"  He  is  going  away,  indeed,  and — and  I  have 
something  to  tell  you." 

I  looked  up,  and  saw  by  the  half-4ight  that  she 
was  flushed  and  nervous.  - 

"  Something  to  tell  me  ?"  I  repeated. 
"Well,  they  are  going,"  said  Hilda  reluctant- 
ly, "  and — and — promise  not  to  be  dreadfully 
hurt  or  angry,  dear." 

"  Hurt !  angry  !  What  can  you  mean  ?" 
"  I  mean  that — that  I  am  going  with  them." 
"  Going  with  them  ?"  I  faltered.  "  Impossible! 
In  the  middle  of  term — with  the  competition 
fixed  for  July — it  is  against  the  rules." 

"  What  do  I  care  for  the  rules,  if  I  leave  the 
College  ?"  said  Hilda,  with  a  scornful  gesture. 

Leave  the  College  !  I  sat  down,  bewildered, 
and  looked  at  her  silently. 

"  Why,  you  see,"  said  my  sister,  speaking  very 
fast,  and  plucking  a  pen  to  pieces,  fiber  by  fiber, 
"  I — I  am  not  like  you,  Barbara.  I  don't  love 
this  place,  as  you  do.  I  don''t  care  for  its  rewards 
and  honors,  its  medals,  competitions,  and  petty 
successes,  as  you  do.  You  desire  nothing  better 
than  to  be  a  painter — I  would  not  be  a  singer  for 
the  universe.  Work,  in  fact,  is  not  my  metier. 
I  hate  it.  I  am  tired  of  it.  I  have  had  enough 
of  it.  Besides,  I  am  three  years  your  senior, 
and  it  is  time  I  ceased  to  be  a  school-girl.  Mrs. 
Churchill  says  I  am  destined  to  make  a  great 
success  in  society." 

Mrs.  Churchill.  Ay,  to  be  sure,  this  was  her 
work. 

"  And  then  papa's  plans  are  quite  altered," 
she  continued,  finding  that  I  remained  silent. 
"  Instead  of  going  back  to  London,  they  mean 
to  spend  some  months  in  Paris.  Mrs.  Churchill's 
Paris  connection  is  immense  ;  and  she  means  to 
introduce  me'in  all  the  best  circles.  It  is  not  to 
be  supposed,  of  course,  with  her  means  and  posi- 
tion, that  she  will  give  up  society  just  because 
she  has  married  papa.  Neither  does  he  desire  it. 
He  has  lived  long  enough  out  of  the  world,  and 
it  is  time  he  returned  to  it,  if  only  for  your  sake 
and  mine.     We  must  be  introduced,  you  know, 


63 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


Barbara ;  and,  as  I  am  the  elder,  my  turn  comes 
first.     You  cannot  object  to  that  surely  ?" 

I  shook  my  head  sadly. 

"  Not  if  you  prefer  it,"  I  said,  speaking  for 
the  first  time.  "  Not  if  you  think  you  will  be 
happy." 

"  Happy !"  echoed  she.  "  Why,  of  course, 
I  shall  be  happy.     Society  is  my  vocation  !" 

*'  Society  is  a  phantom — a  mockery — an  illu- 
sion. Beware  how  you  trust  it.  It  will  vanish 
some  day,  '  and  leave  not  a  rack  behind.' " 

Hilda  shrugged  her  shoulders  disdainfully. 

"  For  mercy's  sake,  no  moralizing!"  exclaimed 
she.  "  I  love  life,  and  the  little  that  I  have  seen 
disposes  me  to  see  more.  You  will  like  it,  too, 
when  you  have  the  opportunity.  Ob,  h'ow  I 
long  to  be  rid  of  this  monotonous  College  rou- 
tine, and  all  the  art-jargon  of  our  hum-drum 
professors !" 

"  Oh,  Hilda !" 

Touched  by  the  reproach  which  my  words  con- 
veyed, or  moved,  perhaps,  by  something  like  re- 
morse for  her  own  indifference,  my  sister  bent 
^      down  suddenly,  and  kissed  me  on  the  brow. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  leave  you,  dear,"  she  said, 
apologetically ;  "  but  I  cannot  help  rejoicing  in 
my  emancipation.  I  never  was  industrious  or 
self-denying,  like  you ;  and  papa  and  Mrs. 
Churchill  are  both  very  kind  to  me,  and — and 
you  have  Ida  'Saxe,  you  know ;  and  she  will  be 
here  quite  as  long,  or  longer,  than  you — so  you 
will  not  be  lonely,  or  miss  me  very  much  when 
I  am  gone,  will  you  ?" 

"  If  I  felt  sure  you  would  have  no  reason  to 
repent  the  change,"  said  I,  speaking  very  slowly, 
and  mastering  the  tears  that  rose  unbidden  to  my 
eyes  ;  "  if  I  knew  that  your  relations  with  Mrs. 
Churchill  would  continue  to  be  as  pleasant  as 
they  now  are,  believe,  Hilda  dear,  that  I  should 
desire  nothing  farther." 

"  You  will  not  even  be  vexed  with  me  for  go- 
ing?" 

"  Not  in  the  least." 

"  Come,  that  is  reasonable !  I  had  no  idea 
that  you  would  have  taken  my  news  so  good- 
temperedly,  or  I  would  have  told  you  long  ago. 
Why,  I  have  been  hesitating  for  the  last  eight 
days,  in  the  dread  that  we  should  have  some 
horrid  scene  about  it,  and  now — well,  enough  of 
that !  I  wish  you  would  come  with  me  to  my 
bedroom,  and  help  me  to  make  the  inventory  of 
my  wardrobe.  I  must  pack  to-night  before  I  go 
to  bed  ;  for  they  have  made  up  their  minds  to  go 
down  the  river  to-morrow,  and  I  shall  not  have  a 
moment  to  spar£." 

About  an  hour  after  this  we  supped  together 
for  the  last  time  at  the  general  table,  and  in  the 
morning  she  took  leave  of  the  school,  and  re- 
moved with  her  luggage  to  my  father's  hotel. 
Madame  Brenner  embraced  her,  and  the  girls 
bade  her  a  kindly  farewell ;  but  there  were  no 
tears  shed  on  either  side,  and  the  parting,  alto- 
gether, was  cool  enough. 

"  The  Fraulein  might  have  done  her  teachers 
the  justice  to  wait,  at  least,  for  the  July  compe- 
tition," said  Professor  Oberstein,  not  without  a 
touch  of  bitterness. 

"  Or  have  left  us  with  something  like  regret," 
observed  Madame  Brenner. 

"  Oh,  Barbara !"  whispered  one  of  the  young- 
er children,  nestling  close  to  my  side,  "  had  you 
been  going  away,  how  sorry  we  should  have 
been  ! ' 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

A   DIPLOMATIC   INTERVIEW 

"  An  artist,  an  organist,  a  pianist,  all  these  are  very 
good  people ;  but,  you  know,  not  '  de  notre  monde,^ 
and  Clive  ought  to  belong  to  it." 

The  Ne/wcorribes. 

"You  are  of  course  aware,  Barbara,"  said 
my  father,  "  that  my  income  is  circumscribed — 
exceedingly  circumscribed — and  that  your  edu- 
cational expenses  have  been  heavy." 

Mrs.  Churchill  and  Hilda  were  up-stairs,  busied 
with  their  last  traveling  arrangements.  My 
father  and  I  were  sitting  at  opposite  sides  of 
the  breakfast  table,  with  the  hotel  bill  and  the 
empty  coffee-cups  between  us. 

"  You  ought  also  to  be  informed,"  he  added, 
"  that  although  Mrs.  Churchill  is  possessed  of 
good  private  means,  my  own  circumstances 
are  not  materially  bettered  by  the  alliance.  I 
am  even,  in  some  respects,  a  poorer  man  than 
before.  I  must  resume  my  position  in  society, 
reside  in  a  better  house,  and  inevitably  increase 
the  general  ratio  of  my  private  expenditure." 

Not  knowing  what  reply  was  expected  of  me, 
ov  to  what  end  this  statement  tended,  I  bowed, 
and  was  silent. 

"  I  purpose,  nevertheless,"  continued  he,  "  to 
leave  you  here  for  the  present.  I  believe  that 
you  have  perseverance,  and  a  certain  amount  of 
— of  ability;  and  I  have  too  much  regard  for 
your  progress  to  withdraw  you  just  yet  from  the 
College.  This  decision,  understand,  will  put 
me  to  considerable  inconvenience  —  very  con- 
siderable inconvenience — which  I  am,  however, 
disposed  on  your  account  to  meet.  On  your 
account  only." 

Feeling  almost  overwhelmed,  if  not  by  the 
magnitude  of  the  favor,  at  all  events  by  the 
manner  in  which  it  was  announced,  I  stammered 
a  word  or  two  of  thanks. 

"  Circumstanced  as  I  am,"  said  my  father, 
after  a  brief  pause,  "  I  can  not  provide  for  my 
family  as  I  would.  I  am  a  poor  man,  and  it  is 
indispensable  that  the  daughters  of  a  poor  man 
should  marry  well.  For  sons  I  could  have  made 
interest  in  high  quarters  ;  but  to  my  daughters 
I  can  give  only  descent  and  education.  Hilda, 
I  feel  sure,  will  do  well.  She  has  tact,  style, 
conversation,  and " 

"  And  beauty,"  I  suggested. 

"Exactly  so.  And  beauty,"  said  he,  with 
something  like  a  shade  of  polite  embarrassment. 
"  She  will  marry,  no  doubt,  before  the  expira- 
tion of  the  year ;  in  which  case  the  field  will 
be  open  to  you.  In  the  mean  time  ,[  desire  to 
draw  your  attention  very  particularly  to  one  or 
two  matters." 

He  was  as  formal  to  me  now  that  I  was 
grown  up,  as  he  was  brusque  and  Sarsh  when  I 
was  a  child !  It  was  strange,  but,  sitting  op- 
posite to  each  other  at  eight  o'clock  this  bright 
May  morning,  with  the  traveling  caliche  waiting 
at  the  door,  and  the  certainty  of  a  long  separa- 
tion before  us,  we  were  carrying  on  our  conver- 
sation as  distantly  as  if,  instead  of  being  father 
and  daughter,  we  were  a  couple  of  ambassadors 
discussing  afifairs  of  state  ! 

Finding  thas  he  was  now  coming  to  the  point, 
I  bowed  again  and  waited  anxiously. 

"In  the  first  place,"  said  he,  "you  must  cul- 
tivate manner.  As  a  child  you  were  awkward ; 
and  even  now  you  are  deficient  in  that  style 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


63 


which  your  sister  appears  instinctively  to  have 
acquired.  Style  is  the  first  requisite  for  society ; 
and  on  society  a  young  woman's  prospects  de- 
pend. I  have  sometimes  feared,  Barbara,  that 
you  do  not  sufficiently  appreciate  society." 

"  I — I  must  confess,  sir,  that  for  me  it  pos- 
sesses few  attractions." 

My  father  shook  his  head,  and  trifled  diplo- 
matically with  his  snuff-box. 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  you,"  he  observed, 
drily.  "  I  have  no  fortune  for  you  ;  remember 
that.  If  you  do  not  marry,  what  is  to  become 
of  you  ?" 

"  I  should  hope,  sir,  that  my  profession  will 
at  all  times  enable  me  to  live." 

He  looked  fixedly  at  me,  as  if  scarcely  com- 
prehending the  sense  of  my  words. 

"  Your  what  V  he  said  at  length,  "  Your 

say  that  again." 

"  My  profession,  sir,"  I  repeated,  not  without 
a  strange  fluttering  at  my  heart. 

"Your  profession!"  he  exclaimed,  flushing 
scarlet.  "  Upon  my  soul,  I  was  not  aware  that 
you  had  one !  What  is  it,  pray  ?  The  church, 
the  law,  or  the  army  ?" 

The  tears  came  rushing  to  my  eyes.  I  looked 
down.  I  could  have  borne  his  anger;  but  I 
had  no  reply  for  his  sarcasm. 

"I  suppose,"  he  continued,  "that,  because 
you  have  been  daubing  here  for  the  last  few 
years,  you  fancy  yourself  a  painter  ?" 

"  I— I  had  hoped " 

"  Hope  nothing  !"  interrupted  he.  "  Hope 
nothing  on  that  head,  for  I  will  never  counte- 
nance it !  Do  you  suppose  that  I — a  Churchill — 
will  permit  my  daughter  to  earn  her  bread  like 
a  dress-maker  ?  Do  you  suppose,  if  I  had  a  son, 
that  I  would  have  allowed  him  to  become  a  beg- 
garly painter  ?  If  you  have  ever  dreamt  of  this 
(and  I  suppose  it  has  been  instilled  into  you  at 
this  confounded  College),  forget  it.  Forget  it 
once  for  all,  and  never  let  me  hear  another  word 
about  it !" 

Still  trembling  as  I  had  so  often  trembled  be- 
fore him  in  my  early  childhood,  I  nevertheless 
dashed  away  the  tears,  and  looked  up  .into  his 
face. 

"But,  sir,"  I  said  firmly,  "if  you  have  no 
fortune  for  me,  and  if  I  do  not  marry — what 
then?" 

"  I  will  hear  of  no  alternative.  You  mu8t 
marry.  It  is  your  duty  to  marry.  Every  well- 
born and  well-bred  young  woman  who  is  prop- 
erly introduced,  has  opportunities  of  marriage. 
You  are  tolerably  good-looking.  There  is  no 
reason  why  you  should  not  succeed  in  society 
as  well  as  others.  Let  me  hear  no  more  of  this 
sign-painting  nonsense.  It  displeases  me  ex- 
ceedingly." 

Saying  which,  he  rose  coldly,  moved  toward 
the  door,  and  was  leaving  without  another  glance 
at  me ;  but  I  had  something  to  say — something 
that  I  had  not  yet  ventured  to  say,  though  I 
had  seen  him  daily  for  a  month. 

"  Stay,"  I  cried,  hurriedly.  "  One  question, 
sir — it  is  the  only  moment,  the  last  moment,  I 
can  ask  it.  What  of  Mrs.  Sandyshaft  ?  Is  she 
still  Hving?" 

He  flushed  again,  and  paused  with  his  hand 
upon  the  door. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  "  I  believe  that  she  is 
living." 


"  And  has  she  never  written  to  you  ?  Never 
asked  for  me  ?    Never  attempted  to  recall  me  ?" 

"  Never,"  said  he,  with  mingled  impatience 
and  embarrassment.     "  Never." 

And  so  passed  on  abruptly,  and  left  the  room. 

I  dropped  into  the  nearest  chair  and  covered 
my  face  with  my  hands.  Alas !  I  was  quite, 
quite  forgotten. 

Presently  they  all  came  down,  cloaked  and 
ready  for  the  journey.  Hilda  tried  to  look  seri- 
ous at  parting. 

"  Good-by,  darling,"  she  said,  kissing  me  re- 
peatedly. "  I  am  so  sorry  to  leave  you ;  but  I 
will  write  from  Paris  as  soon  as  we  arrive.  You 
wil  not  fret,  will  you  ?" 

"Fret!"  echoed  Mrs.  Churchill,  taking  my 
disengaged  hand  between  both  of  hers.  "  How 
can  she  fret  when  she  has  Art,  divine  Art,  for 
her  companion  ?  Adieu,  dearest  girl — we  shall 
not  forget  you !" 

They  then  stepped  into  the  carriage  —  my 
father  touched  my  cheek  coldly  with  his  lips, 
and  as  he  did  so,  whispered  "  Remember  " — the 
courier  shut  up  the  steps — the  coachman  crack- 
ed his  whip — my  sister  waved  her  hand,  and, 
amid  jingling  harness-bells,  bowing  waiters,  and 
a  world  of  clattering  and  prancing,  they  drove 
rapidly  away,  and  vanished  in  a  cloud  of  dust 
round  the  corner  of  the  Theater-platz. 

That  night  I  went  sorrowfully  to  bed  and  lay 
awake  for  hours,  thinking  of  Hilda,  of  the  future, 
of  my  old  Suffolk  home,  and  of  all  that  had 
there  befallen  me.  Was  I  never  again  to  see 
her  who  had  been  more  to  me  than  a  mother  ? 
Was  I  never  more  to  clasp  that  hand  which 
placed  the  silver  ring  on  mine,  long,  long  ago, 
in  the  far-away  woods  about  Broomhill  ? 

Heigho !  There  it  lay — there,  in  the  corner 
of  my  desk — the  Arab's  ring,  with  the  old 
watchguard  knotted  to  it  still ! 


CHAPTER    XXIL 

THE     STUDENT     IN     ART. 

"  Art's  a  service."— Elizabeth  Barrett  Beowkixo. 

There  is  something  almost  sacred  in  the 
enthusiasm,  the  self-devotion,  the  pure  ambition 
of  the  student  in  art.  He,  above  all  others, 
lives  less  for  himself  than  f(Jr  the  past  and  all 
that  made  it  glorious.  What  to  him  is  the 
ignorant  present?  What  the  world,  and  the 
pleasures  of  the  world?  Truth,  excellence, 
beauty,  are  his  gods ;  and  to  them  he  offers  up 
the  sacrifice  of  his  youth.  He  is  poor;  but 
poverty  is  a  condition  of  endeavor.  He  is  un- 
known ;  but  were  it  not  better  to  wrest  one  re- 
velation frona  failure,  than  be  blinded  by  a  fool- 
ish prosperity  ?  For  his  remote  and  beautiful 
Ideal  he  is  content  to- suffer  all  things— priva- 
tion, obscurity,  neglect.  Should  the  world  never 
recognise  him,  can  he  therefore  be  said  to  have 
lived  in  vain  ?  Has  he  not  acquired  the  princi- 
ples of  beauty ;  studied  under  Michael  Angelo ; 
adored  Raffaelle  from  afar  off?  Humble,  earn- 
est, steadfast,  is  he;  modest  of  his  own  poor 
merit  f  and  full  of  wonder  and  admiration  as  a 
little  child.  Infinitely  touching  are  his  hopes, 
his  fears,  his  moments  of  despondency  and 
doubt — infinitely  joyous  and  repaying  are  his 
fi.r8t  well-earned  successes,    No  mean  desires 


64 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


leaven  as  yet  the  unsullied  aspirations  of  his 
Boul.  A  copper-medal,  a  wreath  that  will  fade 
ere  night,  a  word  of  encouragenaent  from  one 
whose  judgment  he  reveres,  are  more  to  him 
than  an  inheritance.  Worth,  not  wealth,  is  the 
end  of  his  ambition;  and  he  is  richer  in  the 
possession  of  these  frail  testimonies  than  in  any 
of  those  grosser  rewards  with  which  society 
could  crown  him. 

Surely  there  may  be  found  in  all  this  some- 
thing admirable  and  instructive — something 
which  bears  unmistakable  impress  of  the  old 
heroic  element !  What  but  this  same  mood  of 
simple  faith  and  constancy  inspired  the  master- 
pieces, the  max-tyrdoms,  the  discoveries  of  the 
past  ?  What  but  this  sent  Leonidas  to  Thermo- 
pyl86,  and  Montrose  to  the  scaffold ;  held  Co- 
lumbus on  his  course  across  the  waste  of  waters, 
and  consoled  Galileo  for  the  ridicule  and  perse- 
cution of  his  age  ? 

It  is  pleasant  thus  to  consider  the  nature  of 
the  student ;  to  accept  him  as  our  living  repre- 
sentative of  the  heroic  race  of  gods  and  men — as 
the  last  lone  dweller  on  those  "shores  of  old 
romance  "  which,  but  for  himself  and  the  poets, 
were  now  well-nigh  blotted  from  our  charts. 
Let  us  cherish  him,  for  he  is  worthy  of  all  cher- 
ishing. Let  us  praise  him,  for  he  is  worthy  of 
all  praise ;  and  this  independently  of  any  genius 
that  may  be  in  him,  but  for  love  of  that  which 
he  loves,  and  in  honor  of  that  which  he  honors. 

Dwelling  in  the  Art-School  of  Zollenstrasse- 
am-Main;  sharing  the  hopes,  efforts,  and  daily 
life  of  the  scholars ;  witnessing  their  generous 
emulation,  and  partaking  their  simple  pleasures, 
I  came  insensibly  to  form  these  views  of  art  and 
its  influences ;  to  regard  it  as  a  high,  almost  as 
a  holy  calling ;  and  to  idealize,  to  a  certain  ex- 
tent, the  mission  of  the  student.  Under  other 
circumstances,  and  in  any  other  land,  I  might 
have  had  reason  to  judge  differently;  but  it  is 
not  in  the  German  nature  to  be  diverted  from  a 
lofty  pursuit  by  petty  passions.  Reflective,  per- 
severing, somewhat  obstinate  and  limited  in  his 
opinions,  somewhat  heavy  and  phlegmatic  by 
temper,  the  German  student  lives  in  brotherly 
relations  with  his  fellow-laborers ;  helps  cheer- 
fully where  help  is  needed ;  praises  heartily 
where  praise  is  due ;  and  is  too  much  in  earnest 
about  his  own  work  to  envy  the  progress  or 
scorn  the  efforts  df  others.  So  national  is  he, 
indeed,  and  so  thoroughly  does  he  identify  him- 
self with  the  general  cause,  that  he  rejoices 
honestly  in  their  success,  and  finds  in  it  matter 
for  self-encouragement.  Of  this  disposition  I 
never  beheld  more  proof  than  during  the  six 
or  seven  weeks  which  intervened  between  my 
father's  departure  and  the  date  of  our  July 
festival. 

It  was  a  momentous  epoch  for  us.  Report 
said  that  it  would  be  the  grandest  competition 
ever  known  since  the  founding  of  the  school. 
We  all  had  something  to  strive  for,  and 
something  to  hope.  In  every  department  the 
students  were  working  like  bees  ;  and,  though 
it  be  the  tritest  of  similes,  I  defy  you  to  have 
avoided  comparing  the  whole  college  to  one  vast 
hive,  had  you  stood  at  hot  noon  in  the  midst  of 
the  empty  courtyard,  listening  to  the  hum  that 
issued  from  the  open  windows  all  around. 

We  had,  indeed,  abundant  motive  for  indus- 
try, since  a  harvest  of  honor,  and  prizes  for 


every  branch  of  study,  awaited  our  success. 
Concerts  and  musical  examinations  were  to  take 
place,  and  an  exhibition  of  fine  arts  was  to  be 
held  in  the  great-room  of  the  Conversation-Haua. 
Amateurs,  professors,  and  strangers  were  ex- 
pected from  far  and  near.  The  names  of  Heine,  . 
Lamartine,  Overbeck,  Waagen,  Schwanthaler; 
and  others,  were  already  stated  to  be  upon  the 
list  of  judges.  King  Louis  of  Bavaria,  it  was 
said,  was  coming  to  visit  the  Grand  Duke  ;  and 
some  even  whispered  of  the  probable  presence  of 
Danneker,  the  venerable  Danneker,  "  whose 
hand  sculptured  the  beauteous  Ariadne  and  the 
Panther."  What  wonder,  then,  if  every  stu- 
dent were  at  work,  heart,  soul,  and  brain,  for 
the  coming  trial  ?  What  wonder  if  the  musi- 
cians deafened  us  all  day ;  if  we  painters  smelt 
of  megilp  and  copal  vai-nish  from  morning  till 
night,  and  came  into  dinner  as  plentifully  be- 
smeared with  yellow  ochre  and  Venetian  red  as 
a  society  of  Cherokees  or  Blackfeet ;  if  the  teach- 
ers were  all  in  a  state  bordering  on  distraction  ; 
and  if  Professor  Metz  (grown  more  ruthless  and 
satirical  than  ever)  hovered  about  the  studios 
like  a  critical  Asmodeus,  breaking  our  hearts 
daily  ? 

"  You  are  a  colony  of  daubers,"  he  used  to 
say;  "canvas-spoilers,  caricaturists!  Were  I 
Dame  Nature,  I  would  bring  an  action  against 
you  for  hbel.  Do  you  call  these  pictures? 
They  are  not  pictures.  They  are  senseless 
masses  of  color.  What  do  they  mean  ?  What 
do  they  teach  ?  What  do  they  prove  ?  Keep 
every  other  commandment  as  faithfully  as  you 
have  kept  the  second,  and  you  will  do  well ;  for 
these  are  likenesses  of  nothing  that  is  in  heaven 
or  earth !  Gott  im  Himmd!  if  I  am  on  the 
hanging  committee,  I'll  turn  every  canvas  to  the 
wall  1" 

Notwithstanding  this  cold  comfort  on  the 
part  of  our  imperious  Professor,  we  worked 
merrily  on,  encouraging  and  helping  one  an- 
other, and  looking  forward  to  the  coming  trial 
with  expectations  far  from  despondent.  Ida, 
whose  talent  for  landscape  was  unrivaled 
among  us,  touched  up  the  mountains  in  Bertha's 
"  FHght  into  Egypt."  Bertha,  whose  figures 
were  capital,  put  in  a  group  of  shepherds  for 
Gertrude,  whose  "  Vale  of  Tempe"  would  have 
been  nothing  without  them — Luisa,  a  very  Pre- 
Raffaellite  of  finish,  manufactured  weedy  fore- 
grounds by  the  dozen — and  Frederika,  whose 
forte  lay  in  aerial  perspective,  dashed  in  skies 
and  blue  mists  and  graduated  flights  of  birds 
for  almost  every  girl  in  the  class.  As  for  poor 
Emma  Werner,  who  really  had  no  talent  what- 
ever, we  all  helped  her,  and  produced  by  our 
combined  efforts  a  very  tolerable  picture,  which, 
I  may  as  well  observe  at  once,  carried  off  a 
third-class  medal,  and  made  the  crowning  glory 
of  her  life  for  ever  after. 

I  have  hesitated,  up  to  this  point,  whether  or 
no  to  dwell  upon  my  share  of  the  hopes  and 
toils  of  the  time — whether  to  describe  my  own 
picture,  or  leave  all  such  details  to  the  imagina- 
tion of  those  who  read  my  story.  Yet  this 
book  is  the  true  chronicle  of  my  Ufe  ;  and  that 
picture  was  more  than  my  life  for  many  and 
many  a  month.  I  had  it  before  my  eyes  at  all 
times  of  the  day,  and  in  all  places.  I  saw  it 
painted  on  the  darkness  when  I  woke,  restless 
and  feverish,  in  the  midst  of  the  summer  night. 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


65 


I  knew  every  inch  of  it  by  heart,  and  could  have 
reproduced  it  from  memory,  touch  for  touch, 
wilhout  the  variation  of  a  hair's  breadth,  right 
or  left.  My  opinion  fluctuated  about  it  all  this 
time  to  a  degree  that  nearly  drove  me  mad. 
Sometimes  I  delighted  in  it  —  sometimes  I 
loathed  it.  Twenty  times  a  day  I  passed  from 
the  summit  of  hope  to  the  lowest  depths  of  de- 
spair. Twenty  times  a  day  I  asked  myself,  "  Is 
it  good  ?  Is  it  bad  ?  Am  I  a  painter ;  or  have 
I  deceived  myself  with  the  phantom  of  a  vain 
desire  ?"  I  could  not  answer  these  questions. 
I  could  only  hope,  and  fear,  and  paint  on,  ac- 
cording to  the  promptings  that  were  in  me. 

My  subject  was  Rienzi ;  my  scene,  the  ruins 
of  the  Forum.  A  solitary  figure  seated,  draped 
and  meditative,  upon  a  fallen  capital  at  the  foot 
of  the  column  of  Phocas ;  a  dim  perspective  of 
buildings  with  the  Colosseum  far  away  in  the 
shadowy  distance ;  a  goat  browsing  in  the  fore- 
ground ;  and,  over  all,  a  sky  filled  with  the  last 
rose-tints  of  the  sunken  sun,  steeping  all  the 
earth  and  the  base  of  every  pillar  in  rich 
shadow,  and  touching  church-tower,  pediment, 
and  sculptured  capital  with  a  glory  direct  from 
heaven — this  was  the  scene  I  strove  to  paint, 
the  dream  I  strove  to  realize,  the  poem  I  strove 
to  utter,  .  How  imperfect  that  utterance  was, 
and  how  vague  that  dream,  none  now  know  bet- 
ter than  myself;  but  all  the  romance  and  ambi- 
tion of  my  youth  were  lavished  on  it ;  though  I 
have  painted  better  pictures  since,  yet,  in  one 
sense,  have  I  never  painted  another  so  good. 

And  thus  the  weeks  went  by,  and  the  ap- 
pointed time  came  up  with  rapid  strides,  de- 
sired yet  dreaded,  and  pregnant  with  events. 


CHAPTER   XXl^I. 

THE   FESTIVAL   OF  FINE   ARTS. 

The  great  week  came  at  last,  and  with  it  such 
shoals  of  visitors  as  filled  the  town  of  Zollen- 
strasse-am-Main  to  overflowing.  Every  hotel, 
lodging-house,  boarding-house,  gasthaus,  and 
suburban  inn  was  crammed  from  basement  to 
garret.  The  King  of  Bavaria  was  at  the  palace, 
and  the  King  of  Wiirtemberg  at  the  Kaiser 
Krone  over  the  way.  Every  boat,  diligence, 
and  public  conveyance  came  laden  daily  with 
double  its  lawful  freight.  Traveling  caleches 
multiplied  so  rapidly  that  the  inn-yards  were  in 
a  state  of  blockade.  The  streets  swarmed  with 
officers  of  the  royal  suites,  and  every  passer-by 
wore  a  uniform  or  a  court  suit.  As  for  honor- 
ary ribbons,  you  saw  as  much  in  half  an  hour  as 
might  have  Stocked  a  haberdasher's  shop,  and 
stars  were  as  plentiful  as  if  the  milky  way  had 
dropped  in  upon  a  visit. 

The  Competition  lasted  just  a  week,  and  was 
arranged  according  to  programme,  thus : — 

On  Monday  and  Wednesday  the  musicians 
competed  in  the  Academy  concert-room  for  the 
best  orchestral  symphony,  instrumental  quar- 
tet, and  four-part  song.  On  Tuesday  and 
Thursday,  the  solo  players  and  vocalists  gave  a 
public  concert.  On  Friday  and  Saturday  w|s 
held  an  exhibition  of  paintings  and  sculptur^ 
by  the  art-students.  Sunday,  however,  the 
grandest  day  of  all,  Avas  set  apart  for  the  distri- 
bution of  prizes.  For  this  ceremony  the  As- 
E 


sembly-room  of  the  Conversation-Haus  was  to 
be  fitted  up,  and  no  visitor  could  be  admitted 
without  a  card  of  invitation.  Then,  besides  all 
this,  we  had  a  French  company  at  the  theater  ; 
a  review ;  a  boar-hunt ;  a  ball  every  night  at 
the  Conversation-Haus  ;  and  a  fair  in  the  pubhc 
gardens — to  say  nothing  of  the  extra  roulette 
tables  which  Messieurs  Fripon  and  Coquin  found 
it  necessary  to  provide  for  the  occasion.  A  fine 
time,  truly,  for  ZoUenstrasse-am-Main — a  fine 
time  for  the  Grand  Duke,  the  hotel  keepers,  and 
the  blacklegs ! 

Nor  were  we  students  one  whit  less  excited 
than  the  rest  of  the  community ;  for  till  the 
Sunday  we  knew  no  more  than  others  what  our 
fate  would  be.  Every  second  day  the  commit- 
tees of  judgment  met,  discussed,  passed  resolu- 
tions, and  recorded  decisions  of  which  we  could 
in  no  wise  foretell  the  purport.  Whose  would 
be  the  first  prize,  and  whose  the  second  ? 
Would  the  medal  be  his,  or  hers,  or  mine  ? 
For  my  own  part,  when  I  saw  the  works  of  art 
assembled  together  in  one  hall,  and  came  to 
compare  my  picture  with  those  of  my  competi- 
tors, I  lost  all  heart,  and  beheved  it  to  be  the 
most  egregious  failure  th^re. 

At  length  the  six  days  and  nights  were  past, 
and  the  Sunday  morning  dawned,  bright  and 
hot,  and  flooded  with  intensest  light.  The  cere- 
mony was  announced  for  two  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon ;  so  we  went  to  church,  as  usual,  in 
the  morning,  though  none  of  us,  I  fear,  attended 
much  to  the  service.  By  half-past  one  we  were 
at  the  Conversation-Haus,  and  in  our  places. 
It  was  a  magnificent  room,  some  eighty  feet  in 
length,  decorated  with  alternate  panelings  of 
looking-glass  and  fresco-painting,  and  hung  with 
superb  chandeliers,  like  fountains  of  cut  glass. 
At  the  upper  end,  on  a  dais  of  crimson  cloth, 
stood  a  semicircle  of  luxurious  arm-chairs  for 
the  Duke  and  his  chief  guests ;  to  the  left  of 
the  dais  a  platform  of  seats,  tier  above  tier,  for 
the  accommodation  of  the  minor  nobility ;  and 
to  the  right  of  the  dais,  a  similar  platform  for 
the  artists  and  men  of  letters  from  among  whom 
the  different  committees  had  been  organized. 
Directly  facing  this  formidable  array,  on  benches 
that  extended  halfway  down  the  room,  and  were 
divided  off"  from  the  lower  end  by  a  wooden  bar- 
rier, we  students  were  seated — the  youths  on 
one  side,  and  the  girls  on  the  other,  with  a  nar- 
row alley  between.  In  the  space  behind  us  and 
in  the  gallery  above  the  door,  were  crowded  all 
those  spectators  who,  having  procured  cards, 
were  fortunate  enough  to  find  places. 

For  the  first  half-hour  all  was  confusion  and 
chatter.  Every  body  was  staring  at  every  body 
else,  asking  questions  which  nobody  could  an- 
swer, and  making  wild  guesses  which  some- 
body else  was  sure  to  contradict  immediately. 
"  Where  will  the  Grand  Duke  sit  ?"  "  Who  is 
that  stout  man  with  the  crimson  ribbon  on  his 
breast?"  "Which  is  Baron  Humboldt,  and 
which  the  Chevalier  Bunsen  ?"  "  Do  you  see 
that  old  man  with  the  silver  locks? — that  is 
Longfellow,  the  American  poet."  "  Nonsense, 
Longfellow  is  quite  a  young  man.  It  is  more 
likely  Danneker,  or  Beranger,  or  Dr.  Spohr !" 
"  See,  there  is  Professor  Metz — there,  yonder, 
talking  to  that  strange-looking  animal  with  the 
red  beard  and  the  brown  court  suit !"  "Animal, 
do  you  call  him  ?     Why,  that  is  Alexandre  Du- 


66 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


mas."  "  Alexandre  Dumas  ?  Absurd !  Do  you 
not  know  that  Dumas  is  a  negro,  and  did  you  ever 
see  a  negro  witli  red  hair  ?" 

And  so  forth,  questioning,  guessing,  and  con- 
tradicting, till  two  o'clock  struck,  and  the  Grand 
Duke,  preceded  by  a  couple  of  ushers  and  fol- 
lowed by  five  or  six  gentlemen  in  rich  uniforms, 
came  in  and  took  his  seat  upon  the  center  chair. 
The  others  placed  themselves  to  his  right  and 
left. 

A  low  buzz,  that  subsided  presently  into  a  pro- 
found silence,  ran  round  the  room.  Then  the 
Duke  rose,  and  pronounced  that  celebrated  speech 
which,  after  being  printed  on  pink  glazed  paper, 
and  distributed  gratuitously  to  the  visitors,  read- 
ing-room subscribers,  and  academy  students,  was 
not  only  reprinted  on  coarse  white  ditto,  and 
sold  at  the  price  of  three  kreutzers  per  copy, 
but  was  also  reviewed,  extracted,  criticised, 
ridiculed,  praised,  quoted,  and  commented  upon 
by  every  journal,  magazine,  and  literary  organ 
throughout  the  thirty-eight  independent  states  of 
the  Germanic  Confederation. 

I  am  not  going  to  incorporate  that  speech, 
eloquent  as  it  was,  with  my  personal  narrative. 
I  shall  not  even  recapitulate  the  heads  of  it,  or 
dwell,  however  briefly,  on  those  briUiant  pass- 
ages wherein  his  Serene  Highness  was  pleased  to 
enlarge  upon  the  pleasures  and  advantages  of 
the  arts  ;  to  cite  Plato,  Fichte,  Lord  Bacon,  and 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  ;  to  compare  our  Academy 
with  the  School  of  Athens ;  and  finally,  in 
drawing  a  skillful  parallel  between  the  Grand 
Duchy  of  Zollenstrasse-am-Main  and  that  other 
insignificant  Grand  Duchy  of  Central  Italy  where 
Michael  Angelo  dwelt,  Giotto  painted,  and  Dante 
was  born,  to  liken  himself,  with  infinite  modesty, 
to  no  less  a  patron  and  promoter  of  learning  than 
Lorenzo  of  Tuscany,  surnamed  the  Magnificent. 

Enough,  then,  that  his  Highness  spoke  the 
speech  "  trippingly  on  the  tongue  ;"  that  it  was 
applauded  as  loudly  as  etiquette  permitted ;  and 
that,  at  the  close  thereof,  receiving  a  written 
paper  from  one  of  the  ushers,  he  began  the 
business  of  the  day  by  summoning  one  Friedrich 
Bernstoff,  of  Wiirtemberg,  free  scholar,  to  re- 
ceive a  first-class  medal  for  the  best  orchestral 
symphony, 

"  Herr  Friedrich  Bernstoff,"  echoed  the  usher, 
"  Herr  Friedrich  Bernstoff  is  requested  to  ad- 
vance." 

A  pale  slender  boy  rose  from  the  ranks  of  his 
companions,  and  stepped  forward  to  the  foot  of 
the  dais.  The  Duke  addressed  him  in  a  few 
congratulatory  but  scarcely  audible  words  ;  pre- 
sented him  with  a  small  morocco  case  containing 
a  gold  medal ;  and  then,  stooping  slightly  for- 
ward, placed  a  fillet  of  laurel  leaves  upon  his 
brow.  The  boy  blushed,  bent  low,  and  returned  to 
his  seat,  glad  to  escape  observation  and  to  snatch 
the  wreath  away  as  soon  as  nobody  was  looking. 

The  same  ceremony  then  continued  to  be  re- 
peated with  little  or  no  variation,  as  the  musical 
candidates  were  called  up,  one  by  one,  through- 
out the  sultry  hours  of  the  July  afternoon. 

Next  came  the  sculptors,  of  whom  there  were 
but  few  in  the  school,  and  whose  audience  was 
proportionately  brief  Lastly,  after  a  tantalizing 
pause,  during  which  his  Serene  Highness  chatted 
with  provoking  nonchalance  to  his  left-hand 
neighbor,  ProfessoV  Metz  came  hurriedly  to  the 
foot  of  the  dais,  and,  bowing,  placed  a  paper  in 


his  Highnetes's  hand.  A  whispered  conference 
ensued.  The  Duke  smiled ;  the  professor  retired  ; 
the  usher  cleared  his  throat,  and  waited  the  word 
of  command  ;  instead,  however,  of  giving,  as  be- 
fore, the  name  of  the  successful  competitor,  his 
Highness  rose  and  addressed  us,  somewhat  to 
the  following  effect : — 

"  Ladies  and  Gentlemen  of  the  Academy  —  As 
regards  the  prizes  which  remain  to  be  presently 
awarded,  we  have  been  placed  —  ahem  !  —  in  a 
position  of  some  doubt  and  difficulty  —  which  ' 
position,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  hasten  —  that 
is  to  say,  I  feel  it  due  to  yourselves  to  — '  in  short, 
to  explain." 

(There  were  ill-natured  tongues  in  the  room 
which  compared  this  speech  with  the  preceding, 
and  hesitated  not  to  point  out  the  difference  be- 
tween things  studied  and  things  extemporized.) 

"  Our  rules,"  continued  his  Highness,  "  are  ex- 
act with  regard  to  most  emergencies  —  for  in- 
stance, ladies  and  gentlemen,  we  cannot  admit  a 
foreigner  to  —  to  the  advantages  of  a  free  scholar- 
ship. You  are  all  aware  of  that.  We  have, 
however,  had  very  few  foreigners,  as  yet,  among 
our  numbers — at  present,  I  believe,  we  have 
only  two.  The  difficulty  to  which  I  allude  has 
arisen  out  of —  of  the  fact  that  one  of  these 
foreigners  has  been  judged  to-'— to  deserve  a 
prize  which  up  to  this  time  has  never  been 
awarded  to  any  but  a  native  of  Germany.  Di- 
vided between  th^  desire  to  be  just,  and  the  fear 
of —  of  overstepping  the  laws  of  our  institution, 
the  committee  of  criticism  have  hesitated  up  to 
this  moment,  and  I  have  but  now  received  their 
decision  through  the  hands  of  our  friend.  Pro- 
fessor Metz.  The  prize  in  question,  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  is  for  the  best  historical  painting  in 
oils.  Were  we  to  be  swayed  by  prejudices  of 
sex  or  nation,  that  prize  would  be  awarded  to 
Herr  Johann  Brandt,  whose  *  Siege  of  Corinth ' 
is,  in  point  of  drawing  and  composition,  inferior 
to  only  one  picture  in  the  hall ;  but,  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  having  considered  the  matter  under 
all  its  —  under  every  aspect,  the  committee  de- 
cides that,  although  the  first  prize  for  the  first 
historical  painting  has  never  yet  had  been  de- 
creed to  a  foreigner  or  —  or  a  lady,  it  must  on 
the  present  occasion  in  justice  be  bestowed 
upon " 

Here  he  referred  to  the  paper  — 

—  "  Upon  Mademoiselle  Barbara  Churchill, 
native  of  England,  and  six  years  a  resident  stu- 
dent in  this  Academy." 

"  Mademoiselle  Barbara  Churchill,"  repeated 
the  usher,  with  an  accent  that  left  my  name  al- 
most unrecognizable.  "  Mademoiselle  Barbara 
Churchill  is  requested  to  advance." 

Utterly  confused  and  skeptical,  I  rose  up,  stood 
still,  and,  conscious  of  the  eyes  of  the  whole 
room,  dared  not  leave  my  place. 

"  Come,  my  pupil,"  said  a  kind  voice  close  be- 
side me.     "  Fear  nothing." 

It  was  Professor  Metz,  who  had  made  his  way 
down  the  central  alley,  and  offered  me  the  sup- 
port of  his  arm. 

I  do  not  remember  if  I  took  it  —  I  do  not 
even  remember  how  I  came  there  ;  but  I  found 
myself  the  next  moment  standing  at  the  foot  of 
tne  dais,  and  the  Duke  bending  over  me,  with 
the  laurels  in  his  hand.  He  spoke  ;  but  I  heard 
only  the  sound  of  his  voice.  He  placed  the 
medal  in  my  hand,  and  the  wreath  upon  my 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


67 


head.  I  stooped,  instinctively  to  receive  it; 
and  this  done,  turned  tremblingly  and  awkward- 
ly enough,  to  return  to  my  place.  As  I  did  so, 
I  looked  Up,  and  there,  amid  the  visitors  to  the 
right  of  the  dais  —  there,  bending  earnestly  for- 
ward, conspicuous  among  a  hundred  others,  pale, 
eager-eyed,  dark-haired,  with  the  old  impetuous 
glance,  and  the  old  free  bearing,  I  saw  —  oh  joy ! 
—  for  the  first  time  since  that  morning  in  the 
woods  long  years  ago  —  my  childhood's  idol,  my 
hero,  Farquhar  of  Broomhill ! 

It  was  not  the  suddenness  of  the  announce- 
ment —  it  was  neither  confusion  nor  fatigue,  nor 
the  emotion  of  an  unexpected  triumph  —  it  had 
nothing  whatever  to  do  with  prizes,  examinations, 
or  Grand  Dukes  —  it  was  the  sight  of  that  one 
swarthy  face,  and  the  shock  of  those  darfc  eyes 
shining  into  mine,  that  sent  the  room  reeling, 
and  made  me  lean  so  heavily  on  the  professor's 
proffered  arm. 

"  You  need  air,"  he  whispered,  and  led  me  to 
an  ante-room,  where  Madame  Brenner  brought 
me  a  glass  of  wine  and  water,  and  insisted  on 
taking  me  back  at  once  to  the  College.  I  went 
to  my  bed-room  and  entreated  to  be  left  quite 
alone. 
^  "  If  I  sleep,"  I  said,  « I  shall  be  better." 

But  it  was  not  sleep  that  i  wanted.  It  was 
solitude  and  silence. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

AWELCOME     VISITOR. 

He  took  my  hands  in  his,  and  led  me  to  the 
■window. 

"What,  Barbara?"  said  he.  "Little  Bar- 
barina,  who  climbed  a  certain  library  window 
one  fine  afternoon,  and  rode  home  upon  Satan ! 
By  my  soul,  I  can  hardly  believe  it." 

"  Believe  or  disbelieve  as  you  will.  Sahib,"  I 
replied,  half-laughing,  half-crying  ;  "  it  is  none 
the  less  true." 

"  I  suppose  not,"  he  said,  seriously.  "  I  sup- 
pose not.  There  could  scarcely  be  two  Bar- 
barinas  in  so  small  a  world  as  this !  And  then 
to  find  you  here — here,  of  all  nooks  and  corners 
in  Europe  !  Why,  I  should  as  soon  have  thought 
of  meeting  you  '  where  the  Chineses  drive  their 
cany  wagons  light !'  So  tall,  too — so  clever — 
such  a  capital  artist !  Peste  !  the  sight  of  you 
makes  me  feel  a  dozen  years  younger.  How 
long  is  it,  carina^  since  you  and  I  were  at  Broom- 
hill  together  ?" 

"I  left  Stoneycroft  Hall,"  sighed  I,  "just  six 
years  and  three  months  ago." 

"It  seems  like  six  centuries.  I  have  been 
from  Dan  to  Beersheba  in  the  mean  time ;  and  I 
can  not  say  that  I  am  much  the  better  for  it — 
whilst  you — by  the  by,  you  always  had  a  taste 
for  art.  Do  you  remember  choosing  the  best 
drawing  in  my  sketch-book,  Barbara  ?  And  do 
you  remember  how  I  unpacked  the  Paul  Ver- 
onese for  your  connoisseurship's  special  delec- 
tation?" 

"Indeed,  yes— and  I  also  remember  how 
that  same  picture  very  nearly  proved  your 
death." 

"  Shade  of  Polyphemus,  and  so  do  I !'  A 
little  more,  and  I  should  have  been  crushed  as 
flat  as  Acis,  without  even  a  Galatea  to  weep  for 


me.  Poor  old  Paolo  !  Heaven  grant  that  mine 
ancestral  rats  have  not  quite  eaten  him  up  by 
this  time.  But,  Barbarina,  how  came  you  here  ? 
And  why?  Have  you  adopted  art  as  a  pro- 
fession ?  What  are  your  plans,  prospects,  and 
so  forth  ?  Why,  you  have  a  thousand  things 
to  tell  me." 

"  Not  half  so  ma^y  as  you  have  to  tell  me, 
Mr.  Farquhar.  From  Dan  to  Beersheba  is  a 
journey  worth  relating,  and  you  must  have  had 
many  adventures  by  the  way." 

"  As  many  as  the  Knight  of  La  Mancha  !  As 
many  as  Don  Diego,  on  his  road  to  and  from 
the  Promontory  of  Noses  !  As  many  as  any  Sir 
Galahad  that  ever  sat  in  the  Siege  Perilous,  or 
brake  bread  at  Arthur's  round  table !  But  let 
my  stories  lie  and  rest  awhile  longer  Barbarina. 
They  are  scarcely  worth  the  breath  it  costs  to 
tell  them.  Sit  down  here,  instead,  and  talk  to 
me.  Tell  me  all  that  has  happened,  and  what 
your  life  has  been  since  we  parted." 

"  Will  you  answer  me  one  question  first  ?" 

"  Willingly— if  I  can." 

"  How  long  is  it  since  you  left  Broomhill  ? 
Did  you  often  see  my  aunt  after  I  was  gone  ? 
Did  she  miss  me  ?  Was  she  sorry  for  me  ? 
Did  she  never  speak  of  me,  or  think  of  me 
again  ?  Why  did  she  not  write  to  me  after  I 
went  home  ?  What  had  I  done  that  she  should 
utterly  abandon  me  ?" 

"  My  child,  instead  of  one  question,  here  are 
a  dozen ;  none  of  which  I  can  satisfactorily 
answer.  In  the  first  place,  I  do  not  even  know 
in  what  month  you  went  away." 

"  In  May." 

"  And  I  in  September.  In  the  second  place, 
I  never  saw  Mrs.  Sandyshaft  more  than  twice 
during  that  time.  It  was  my  own  fault,  and  I 
was  a  fool  for  my  pains.  I  behaved  like  an  un- 
civilized savage ;  played  with  edged  tools ; 
very  nearly  fell  into  the  hands  of  a  female 
Phihstine;  discovered  my  error  before  it  was 
too  late,  and  fled  the  country.  Pshaw  !  you  re- 
member her,  Barbara?" 

"  Lady  Flora "  I  faltered. 

"Now  Countess  of  somewhere  or  another, 
with  a  castle  in  the  west  of  England  and  a  hus- 
band as  old  as  Methusalah  !  Well,  to  return  to 
Mrs.  Sandyshaft — I  saw  her  but  twice.  Once 
soon  after  you  left,  and  again  when  I  called  to 
bid  her  good-by,  the  night  before  I  started  for 
the  East." 

"  And  what  did  she  say  of  me  ?" 

"  Very  little  the  first  time,  and  nothing  the 
second." 

"  Did  she  know  that  Papa  had  sent  us  to  Ger- 
many?" 

"  I  fancy  not.  I  think  she  would  have  told 
me,  had  she  known  it." 

"  Do  you  think  she  missed  me  ?" 

"I  am  sure  of  it  —  the  surer  because  she 
never  said  a  word  about  it.  Janet  missed  you 
sadly,  and  cried  when  she  heard  your  name." 

"  Poor  Janet !"  , 

"  For  my  own  part,  Barbara,  I  felt  as  if  the 
house  were  not  the  same  place  at  all.  The  day- 
light seemed  to  have  gone  out  of  it,  and  silence 
to  have  settled  on  it  Hke  a  spell.  When  I  was 
shown  into  the  old  familiar  parlor,  and  saw  your 
aunt  in  her  old  familiar  place,  and  looked  round 
for  you  as  usual,  and  then  heard  that  you  were 
g<3ne  —  gone  right  away  never  to  return  —  I 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


felt — by  Jove,  I  felt  as  if  a  cold  hand  had  been 
laid  upon  my  heart !" 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Farquhar,  did  you  miss  me  also  ?" 

"  Miss  you  ?     My  little  girl,  I  could  not  have 

missed  you  more  had  I Parhleu  !  it  was  for 

that  I  staid  away.  Do  you  suppose  I  would  not 
have  spent  many  an  hour  with  the  old  lady  in 
her  solitude,  had  I  not  been  a  selfish  monster 
and  hated  to  go  near  the  place  ?  And  so  you 
have  never  seen  her  since  ?" 

"  Never." 

**  Nor  heard  from  her  ?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

**  And  you  do  not  even  know  whether  she  is 
alive  or  dead  ?" 

"  I  have  seen  my  father ;  and  he  says  that 
she  is  living." 

"  But  why  not  write  to  her  ?" 

*'  I  can  not.  I  loved  her,  as  though  she  were 
my  mother,  and  her  house  was  more  to  nfe  than 
home  had  ever  been.  She  exiled  me  from  her- 
self and  from  all  that  made  me  happy,  and — 
and  I  can  not  write  to  her  now — I  can  not  write 
to  her  now !" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  looked  as 
people  look  when  they  blame  you  and  refrain 
from  saying  so.  ' 

"  Well,  ifrell,"  said  he,  "  we  will  talk  this 
over  some  day  !  In  the  mean  time,  Barbarina, 
tell  me  something  of  yourself.  Tell  me  what 
has  become  of  the  wild,  bright-eyed  little  girl 
whom  I  once  knew  at  Broomhill,  and  what  pos- 
sible affinity  can  exist  between  her  and  you  ?" 

I  took  the  chair  he  placed  for  me,  and  obey- 
ed him  as  literally,  and  in  as  few  words  as  I 
could.  I  went  back  to  that  darkest  day  in  all 
my  calendar,  when  my  aunt  told  me  I  must 
leave  her.  I  recalled  my  weary  journey  home, 
and  how  I  found  my  sister  Jessie  dead.  I 
sketched  the  circumstances  of  my  arrival  in 
Germany;  the  routine  of  my  school  life;  the 
growth  of  my  taste  for  art ;  and  all '  that  I 
thought  could  interest  or  amuse  him,  down  to 
my  father's  second  marriage,  and  the  departure 
of  my  sister  Hilda  for  Paris.  He  listened 
attentively ;  sometimes  interrupting  me  with 
exclamations,  and  sometimes  with  questions. 
When  I  had  done,  he  pushed  his  chair  away, 
and  paced  restlessly  about  the  room 

"  Strange  !"  said  he,  more  to  himself  than  me. 
"Strange,  how  all  things  shape  themselves  to 
the  ends  of  genius !  The  old,  new  story,  over 
and  over  again!  The  old,  new  story  of  how' 
heartbreak,  and  exile,  and  neglect  develop  the 
nature  of  the  artist,  and  arm  him  for  his  future 
career.  Tush,  Barbara,  you  may  congratulate 
yourself  upon  your  troubles !  Had  you  vege- 
tated till  now  in  the  bucolic  atmosphere  of 
Stoneycroft  Hall,  you  had  never  carried  off  a 
gold  medal  or  painted  Rienzi  in  the  ruins  of  the 
Forum  !" 

"  Perhaps  not,"  I  replied  sadly  ;  "  but  then 
my  childhood  would'  have  been  cared  for,  and 
the  first  impulses  of  my  heart  would  not  have 
faded  among  strangers.  I  should  have  known 
the  happiness  of  home,  and " 

My  voice  failed,  and  I  broke  off  abruptly. 
He  finished  my  sentence  for  me. 

"  And,  like  a  foolish  virgin,  you  regret  the 
good  the  Gods  have  sent  you !  Pshaw,  child, 
beware  of  these  longings  —  beware  of  such 
empty  words  as  home,  or  love,  or  friendship. 


They  mean  nothing  —  worse  than  nothing  — 
disappointment;  bitterness  of  soul,  restlessness, 
despair !  Forget  that  you  have  a  heart,  or  be- 
gin life  afresh  with  the  determination  to  regard 
it  merely  as  a  useful  muscle  employed  in  the 
circulation  of  the  blood.  Steel  yourself  to  this, 
and  you  may  have  some  chance  of  happiness  in 
the  future.  Devote  yourself  to  your  art.  Make 
it  your  home,  your  country,  your  friend.  Wed 
it ;  live  in  it ;  die  for  it ;  shut  your  eyes  and 
your  ears  against  all  else ;  and  if  ever  a  fool 
comes  talking  love  to  you,  laugh  at  him  for  his 
pains,  and  bid  him  '  go  a  bat-fowling !' " 

"  And  if  I  cannot  do  all  this  ?  If  the  hu- 
manity that  is  in  me  demands  something  more 
than  paint  and  canvas  — what  then  ?" 

"What  then?  Why,  shipwreck,  child. 
Shipwreck  on  the  deep  sea,  without  a  compass, 
without  a  morrow,  without  a  hope." 

There  was  a  fierce  and  bitter  regret  in  his 
voice,  that  struck  me  hke  a  revelation. 
*    "  You  speak  as  one  who  has  suffered,"  I  said, 
almost  without  intending  it. 

He  smiled  drearily. 

"  I  speak,"  said  he,  "  as  one  who  has  tried  all 
things,  and  eaten  of  the  Dead  Sea  apples  —  as 
one  who,  having  wealth,  is  poor,  and,  having  a 
home,  is  homeless  !  As  one,  Barbara,  to  whom 
'  this  goodly  frame,  the  earth,'  seems  but  a  ster- 
ile promontory,  and  this  'brave  o'erhanging 
firmament  no  other  thing  than  a  foul  and  pesti- 
lent congregation  of  vapors  !'  But  this  is  non- 
sense.    Parlous  autre  chose  H 

"  If  I  dared,"  said  I  sadly,  "  I  would  ask  you 
to  talk  to  me  of  yourself  alone  ;  but " 

"  But  you  are  too  young  to  be  my  confidante, 
Barbara  —  too  young  —  too  innocent,  too  hope- 
ful. Nay,  it  is  useless  to  ask  —  Heaven  forfend 
that  I  should  burden  your  memory  with  the  rec- 
ord of  my  faults  and  follies !" 

I  had  no  reply  for  this,  and  a  long  silence  fol- 
lowed, during  which  he  continued  to  pace  to 
and  fro,  with  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  back 
and  his  eyes  fixed  gloomily  upon  the  ground. 
For  the  first  time  since  our  meeting,  I  found 
myself  at  liberty  to  observe  him  closely.  He 
was  but  little  changed,  if  at  all.  Somewhat 
browner,  perhaps  ;  somewhat  broader  and  more 
vigorous  ;  but  the  same  Hugh  Farquhar,  every 
inch  !  If  the  lines  of  the  mouth  seemed  to  have 
grown  sterner  and  the  brow  more  thoughtful, 
six  years  of  traveling  were  sufficient  to  account 
for  it ;  but  would  they  also  account  for  that 
deeper  fire,  so  weary,  wistful  and  consuming, 
that  burned  in  his  dark  eyes,  like  the  flame  of 
a  smouldering  volcano?  He  had  asked  me 
what  my  life  was  since  we  parted :  I  asked  my- 
self what  had  been  his  ?  A  thousand  questions 
started  to  my  lips  ;  but  I  dared  not  utter  one.  I 
longed  to  ask  him  why  he  had  again  wandered 
away  from  Broomhill ;  where  he  had  been  trav- 
eling ;  whence  he  came ;  and  whither  he  was 
going.  I  longed,  also,  to  tell  him  that  I  kept 
his  silver  ring,  and  had  kept  it,  ever  since,  as  a 
sacred  relic  ;  but  a  strange  reluctance  tied  my 
tongue,  and  kept  me  silent.  In  the  midst  of 
my  reverie,  he  looked  up  suddenly  and' found 
me  watching  him. 

"  Barbara,"  said  he,  "  you  think  me  a  strange 
being ;  fitful,  perverse,  good  for  nothing ! 
Well,  you  are  right ;  and  if  I  puzzle  you,  I  puz- 
zle myself  as  much,  and  more.     Some  day  or 


Il 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


69 


Y 


another,  when  you  and  I  are  both  older  and 
wiser,  I  will  tell  you  the  story  of  my  inner  life 
from  first  to  last  —  if  only  to  show  you  how  a 
man  may  gamble  away  Heaven's  precious  gifts, 
and  find  himself,  at  thirty-four,  bankrupt  of  all 
that  makes  the  future  not  wholly  desperate  !" 

"  Bankrupt !"  I  faltered,  bewildered  by  his 
vehemence,  and  fearing  I  knew  scarcely  what. 
"  Pshaw,  child,  bankrupt  in  hopes  —  not 
acres!"  he  exclaimed,  injpatiently.  "What  is 
life  but  a  game  of  chance,  and  what  are  we  but 
the  players  ?  We  stake  on  the  future —  it  may 
perhaps  be  a  prize ;  perhaps  a  blank.  Who 
knows  till  the  card  turns  up,  or  the  ball  has 
done  rolling?" 

"  I  can  not  bear  that  you  should  feel  thus,"  I 
said,  the  tears  starting  to  my  eyes.  "  You  are 
still  young  —  you  are  rich  —  you  might  make 
yourself  and    so    many    others    happy  ;x'and 

yet " 

"And  yet,  Barbara,  I  envy  you  with  my 
whole  soul !" 

"  Envy  me,  Mr.  Farquhar  ?" 
"Ay,  as  Edmund  envied  Edgar!  When  I 
came  to-day  into  the  calm  atmosphere  of  this 
house,  —  when  being  conducted  through  yon- 
der corridor,  I  passed  an  open  door,  and  saw 
some  twenty  young  girls  sitting  round  a  table 
with  their  books  and  samplers,  all  industrious, 
innocent,  and  happy  —  when  I  was  shown  into 
this  pleasant,  simple  parlor,  with  its  matted 
floor  and  open  window,  and  flower-laden  bal- 
cony —  when  I  see  you  in  that  plain  brown 
gown  and  snowy  collar,  looking  so  good  and 
purposeful,  and  working  out  the  problem  of  a 
studious  and  ennobling  career ;  when  I  see  all 
this,  Barbara,  and  compare  it  with  my  wander- 
ing, aimless,  hopeless,  futile  life,  I  envy  you 
and  such  as  you,  and  wish  myself  something 
worthier  —  or  something  worse  —  than  I  am ! 
Nay  —  do  not  interrupt  me.  I  know  what  you 
would  say.  I  know  all  that  can  be  said  upoil 
the  subject  —  but  I  am  too  old  now  to  turn  the 
current  of  my  ways.!" 

"  You  are  unjust  to  yourself,"  I  suggested, 
scarcely  knowing  what  to  reply.  "He  who 
travels  much,  learns  much ;  and  I  can  conceive 
nothing  finer  than  the  life  of  one  who  studies  his- 
tory from  the  ruins  of  Greece  and  Rome,  geology 
from  the  mountains  and  mines,  and  human  nature 
from  association  with  all  the  races  of  mankind." 
He  laughed,  or  forced  a  laugh  ;  and,  taking  a 
volume  of  Bacon  from  the  table,  read  aloud — 

"  '  Travel  in  the  younger  sort  is  a  part  of  edu- 
cation ;  in  the  elder,  a  part  of  experience ' — why, 
Barbarina,  you  are  aVerulam  in  petticoats !  Now, 
look  you,  I  am  of  the  '  elder  '  sort,  and  travel  is 
not  only  a  part  of  my  experience,  but  all  my  ex- 
perience. For  more  than  twelve  years  I  have 
been  wandering  about  the  world,  and  what  do 
you  suppose  I  have  learned  for  my  pains?" 
"  I  should  exceedingly  like  to  know." 
"  In  the  first  place,  then,  I  am  convinced  that 
English  ale  is  better  drinking  than  train-oil ;  and 
that  Burgundy  and  Bordeaux  are  better  than 
either." 

"  I  think  I  could  have  told  you  that,  without 
going  from  Dan  to  Beersheba,  Mr.  Farquhar," 
"Miss  Churchill,  you  are  satirical!  In  the 
second  place,  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
the  world  really  is  a  round  world,  and  not  a  flat 
surface  with  the  Celestial  Empire  in  the  midst." 


"  Amazing  discovery !" 

*'  Be  pleased  not  to  interrupt  the  court.  And 
in  the  third  place,  madam,  I  am  persuaded  that 
it  is  my  destiny  to  dangle  about  diligences,  be  a 
perigrinator  in  post-chaises,  and  a  diner  at  table 
d'hotes  throughout  the  term  of  my  natural  life. 
Surely  this  is  experience  and  wisdom  enough  for 
one  mortal  man,  and  as  much  as  my  worst  ene- 
mies have  a  right  to  expect  from  me !" 

With  this  he  snatched  up  his  hat,  and  pointed 
to  the  time-piece  on  the  mantle-shelf. 

"  I  have  been  here  an  hour  and  a  half,"  he  ex- 
claimed. "  If  I  make  my  visits  too  long,  the 
Academic  powers  will,  perhaps,  have  the  bad 
taste  to  object.  Adieu,  Barbarina.  I  shall  come 
again  soon." 

"  Do  you  remain  long  at  Zollenstrasse  ?" 

"  Chi  lo  sa?  Yes — no — perhaps.  'Tis  as 
the  fancy  takes  me,  and  the  mood  lasts.  Fare- 
well !" 

He  shook  hands ;  hesitated  a  moment,  as  if 
doubtful  whether  I  were  too  old  to  be  kissed  ; 
laughed ;  drew  back ;  and  throwing  wide  the 
window,  which  opened  on  a  balcony  only  three 
or  four  feet  from  the  ground,  leaped  lightly  down 
into  the  courtyard,  without  troubling  himself  to 
go  round  by  the  corridors,  and  out  at  ,the  front 
entrance,  like  a  respectable  and  orderly  visitor. 
At  the  gate  he  turned  again,  waved  his  hand, 
and  was  gone  in  a  moment. 

I  hastened  to  the  solitude  of  my  room,  locked 
the  door,  and  sat  on  the  side  of  my  bed,  for  a 
long  time,  thinking  of  many  things.  Was  I  hap- 
py ?  or  sorrowful  ?  or  both  ?  I  know  not — I 
only  know  that  when  I  was  summoned  down  to 
supper,  I  heard  one  of  my  schoolfellows  whisper 
to  her  neighbor : 

"  Look  at  Barbara's  eyes.  She  has  been  cry- 
ing. The  dark  stranger  from  England  brought 
bad  news  to-day !" 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

I  SHINE  WITH  A  REFLECTED  LUSTRE. 

The  competition  over,  Zollenstrasse  subsided 
into  its  normal  state  of  semi-fashionable  quiet. 
The  King  of  Wiirtemberg  drove  away  in  a  ba- 
rouche and  four,  preceded  by  his  outriders  and 
followed  by  three  carriages  containing  his  suite. 
The  other  illustrious  visitors,  with  the  exception 
of  a  few  who  remained  to  drink  the  waters,  de- 
parted with  more  or  less  of  magnificence  to  their 
several  destinations.  The  paintings  and  casts 
came  back  to  the  studios  ;  the  benches  and  red 
hangings  were  cleared  out  of  the  Assembly 
room  ;  the  theater,  which  for  a  whole  week  had . 
been  crowded  every  night,  was  advertised,  as 
usual,  for  Sundays  and  Wednesdays  only,  and 
the  waiters  might  once  more  be  seen  loitering 
with  their  hands  in  their  pockets  at  the  doors  of 
the  hotels.  In  the  Academy,  an  unnatural  calm 
succeeded  to  an  unwonted  confusion.  The  pres- 
ent was  the  long  vacation,  when  every  one,  save 
a  melancholy  minority,  packed  up  and  went  joy- 
ously away.  Hilda  and  I,  Ida  Saxe,  and  one  or 
two  others,  were  among  those  who  always  staid 
behind.  Now  Hilda,  too,  was  gone,  and  the 
great  building  was  more  desolate  than  ever. 
Had  it  not  been  for  Hugh,  my  triumph,  after  all, 
would  have  been  a  sad  one. 

Still  it  was  a  triumph ;  and  my  heart  throbbed 


TO 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


with  pleasure  when  my  companions  thronged 
about  me  that  Sunday  evening,  asking  to  see  my 
medal — my  beautiful  gold  medal,  in  its  case  of 
morocco  and  velvet.  I  even  went  to  sleep  with 
it  under  my  pillow  that  first  night ;  and  looked 
at  it,  I  need  hardly  say,  as  soon  as  I  opened  my 
eyes  in  the  morning. 

"  You  will  be  made  a  sub-professor,  now,  Bar- 
bara," said  one. 

*'  And  take  out  a  double  first-class  certificate, 
when  you  leave  the  College  !"  added  another. 

"  And  sit  at  Madame  Brenner's  right  hand  at 
table  and  at  chapel,"  said  a  third. 

All  of  which  came  to  pass ;  for  at  supper  that 
very  same  night,  I  was  installed  in  the  seat  of 
honor ;  and  next  day  received  my  appointment 
as  sub-professor,  with  a  salary  of  two  hundred 
florins  per  annum.  Nor  was  this  all.  Professor 
Metz,  the  critical,  the  formidable,  he  who  never 
praised  or  pitied,  summoned  me  a  few  days  later 
to  his  private  studio,  and  graciously  proclaimed 
his  intention  of  employing  me  to  assist  him,  dur- 
ing the  vacation,  in  painting  the  panels  of  the 
Grand  Duke's  summer  pavilion.  I  confess  that 
I  was  more  elated  by  this  mark  of  distinction 
than  by  any  other  of  my  successes.  Of  course  I 
wrote  to  Hilda  by  the  first  post,  and  filled  four 
large  pages  of  letter-paper  with  details  of  the 
Competition,  not  forgetting  my  own  good  for- 
tune. I  omitted,  however,  though  I  scarcely 
knew  why,  all  mention  of  Farquhar  of  Broom- 
Mil. 

The  school  was  nearly  empty  when  he  next 
came  to  see  me,  and  Madame  Brenner,  who  was 
somewhat  scandalized  by  the  manner  of  his  de- 
parture on  the  first  occasion,  received  him  in  her 
own  parlor,  and  remained  there  till  he  left. 
When  he  was  gone,  she  said — 

"Your  friend,  Barbara,  is  a  very  strange  per- 
son." 

To  which  I  replied : — 
"Strange,  Madame?" 

"  Is  it  his  custom  to  prefer  the  window  to  the 
door,  when  he  leaves  a  house  ?" 

"He  —  he  has  been  a  great  traveler,  Ma- 
dame," I  stammered.     "He  has  eccentricities. 

He '' 

"  Have  you  known  him  long  ?" 
"  Since  I  was  a  little  girl,  Madame." 
"  And  his  profession  ?" 
"  He  is  a  gentleman,  Madame — a  proprietair 
— very  rich — a  connoisseur  of  the  fine  arts." 

"  Evidently  a  connoisseur,"  said  Madame.  "  I 
should  have  supposed  him,  from  his  conversa- 
tion, to  be  a  painter." 

Here  our  little  colloquy  ended  ;  but  Madame 
Brenner  was  not  quite  at  ease  upon  the  subject 
of  my  English  visitor.  That  any  man  should 
run,  when  he  might  walk  ;  jump  from  a  window, 
when  he  might  go  round  by  a  door ;  stand  up 
and  pace  about  a  room,  when  he  might  sit  in  a 
chair;  and  travel  about  the  world,  when  he 
might  live  at  home  in  a  chateau  of  his  own, 
were  peculiarities  entirely  beyond  the  radius  of 
her  comprehension.  All  that  he  said,  all  that 
he  did,  was  at  variance  with  her  German  deco- 
rum ;  and  henceforth  she  made  a  point  of  being 
present  at  our  interviews.  One  day,  however, 
when  we  were  walking  along  the  Weimar  Strasse, 
we  met  the  royal  cortege  face  to  face,  with  Hugh 
riding  beside  the  Grand  Duke,  in  familiar  con- 
versation.   He  took  off  his  hat  first  to  Madame,  , 


and  then  to  me.     I  observed  that  this  incident 
produced  a  deep  impression  on  her. 

"  Your  friend  is  a  man  of  rank  ?"  said  she, 
interrogatively,  when  the  Ducal  party  was  out 
of  sight. 

"No,  Madame." 
She  looked  perplexed. 
"  Of  high  position,  then  ?" 
"  He  is  a  gentleman,  Madame,   of  ancient 
family." 

"  And  enormously  rich  ?" 
"No,  Madame — not  rich  for  an  English  pro- 
prietaire.      He  has  about  a  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  florins  a  year." 

This  was  a  piece  of  malice  on  my  part :  for 
the  Grand-Ducal  revenue  amounted  to  about  one 
third  of  the  sum,  perquisites  included.  Poor 
Madame  Brenner  murmured  '■'■  Mein  Gott !" 
sighed  meekly,  looked  more  perplexed  than  be- 
fore, and  was  silent  during  the  rest  of  the  walk. 
A  day  or  two  after  this,  one  of  the  girls  show- 
ed me  his  name  in  the  Zollenstrasser  Zeitung. 
He  had  been  dining  with  the  Duke  and  Duchess, 
and  was  written  down  an  "Excellency." 
"  He  must  be  a  very  great  man,"  said.  she. 
"He  is  a  very  wonderful  man,"  I  replied. 
"  He  has  been  all  over  the  world.  He  speaks 
as  many  languages  as  you  have  fingers  on  your 
hands.  He  has  a  horse  that  kneels  down  to  let 
him  mount ;  and  a  black  valet  who  saved  his 
life  from  the  bite  of  a  serpent  in  India.  He  has 
a  house  four  times  as  big  as  the  Ducal  Residenz ; 
and  a  park  larger  than  the  woods  of  Briihl ;  and 
some  years  ago  he  bought  a  Paul  Veronese,  for 
which  he  gave  thirty  thousand  florins." 

"  Wunderhar  !  And  with  all  this  he  has  no 
title  ?" 

"None  at  all." 

"  And  is  not  even  a  Geheimrath  ?" 
"  Nothing  of  the  kind,  dear.    Nothing  but  an 
English  gentleman,  pur  et  simple^ 

I  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  say  that  we 
deemed  that  the  better  title  of  the  two. 

These  things  created  an  immense  excitement 
in  the  Academy.  Those  few  pupils  who  remain- 
ed behind  were  very  inquisitive  about  the  mar- 
velous Englishman,  and  listened  eagerly  to  all 
that  I  could  be  brought  to  tell  them  on  the  sub- 
ject. Whatever  I  said  was  repeated,  with  exag- 
gerations, to  Madame  Brenner ;  Madame  Bren- 
ner communicated  it,  with  placid  amazement,  to 
the  resident  professors ;  the  professors  carried 
the  news  to  all  the  aesthetic  teas  in  Zollenstrasse ; 
and  Hugh  Farquhar  became  the  Monte  Christo 
of  the  day.  In  the  mean  time,  I  shone  with  a 
reflected  lustre,  and  was  almost  more  revered 
by  my  fellow-students  for  my  friend  than  for 
my  medal. 

Still,  he  came  but  seldom.  Sometimes  I  met 
him  going  out  of  the  public  library,  with  a  book 
under  his  arm.  Sometimes  I  saw  his  horse  and 
groom  waiting  before  the  door  of  his  hotel. 
And  one  morning  he  came  armed  with  an  order 
to  see  the  College,  on  which  occasion  Madame 
Brenner,  whose  respect  and  perplexity  were  ever 
on  the  increase,  informed  me  that  Her  Excel- 
lency was  an  extraordinary  man,  and  made  ex- 
traordinary observations  about  every  thing ! 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


71 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE    GRAND    DUKE's   SUMMER   PAVILION. 

The  Grand  Duke's  summer'  pavilion  was  in 
shape  an  oblong  parallelogram,  built  in  imita- 
tion of  the  celebrated  Casino  Rospig^osi.  The 
fa9ade  was  incrusted  with  tasteful  bas-reliefs, 
and  the  interior  divided  into  paneled  compart- 
ments, filled  alternately  with  mirrors  and  paint- 
ings. The  old  designs,  of  a  bastard  Watteau 
school,  had  been  lately  removed ;  and  Professor 
Metz  was  replacing  them  by  subjects  descriptive 
of  German  life  and  landscape.  His  plan  was  to 
"lay  in"  the  broad  effects  of  each  picture,  and 
then  leave  me  to  carry  it  forward,  guided  by  a 
small  original  sketch.  When  I  had  done  as 
much  as  he  deemed  necessary,  he  took  it  in  hand 
again,  and  finished  it.  Thus  the  work  progress- 
ed rapidly. 

One  morning,  when  the  Professor  had  gone 
home  to  lunch,  and  I  was  painting  alo;fte,  Ida 
came  in  with  a  letter  in  her  hand.  She  was 
flushed  with  running,  and  sat  down,  quite  out 
of  breath,  in  an  old  fauteuil  in  the  middle  of 
the  room. 

"  I  saw  by  the  post-mark,"  said  she,  "  that  it 
came^  from  Paris,  and  I  knew  by  the  writing 
that  it  was  a  letter  from  Hilda ;  so  I  put  on  my 
hat,  and  brought  it  directly.  I  have  also  brought 
you  a  roll,  and  some  slices  of  liver-sausage  !  I 
was  sure  you  must  be  hungry,  and  equally  sure 
that  you  would  never  take  the  trouble  to  come 
■  back  for  the  college  dinner." 

"Thanks,  Ida  dear.  I  believe  I  really  am 
hungry ;  but  it  is  so  tiresome  to  go  all  the  way 
back  to  College,  across  that  wearisome  Hof-gar- 

ten  in  the  broiling  sun,  and " 

"  Nonsense  !     Genius  must  eat.   No,  Barbara 
— roll  and  sausage  first,  and  letter  afterward !" 
"Nay,  please  let  me  have  my  letter  !" 
"  Not  till  you  have  eaten  !" 
"  Tyrant !    How  can  I  eat  while  you  keep  me 
in  suspense  ?    Remember,  I  have  not  heard  from 
Hilda  since  I  wrote  to  tell  her  that  I  had  the 
medal !" 

Ida  gave  it  with  a  kiss. 
"Tliere,"  said  she,  "you  are  always  to  be 
spoiled  !      I  shall  amuse  myself  by  looking  at 
the  pictures,  What  a  charming  place  this  would 
be  for  a  studio  !" 

I  broke  the  seal  eagerly,  and  read  my  letter. 
"  My  dearest  Barbara,"  wrote  Hilda,  "  Paris 
delights  me  more  every  day.  I  can  not  tell  you 
how  happy  I  am.  My  life  is  a  perpetual  fete. 
Every  day  we  drive  out  and  pay  visits  ;  and 
every  evening  is  devoted  to  society.  Mamma 
receives  once  a  week,  and,  as  she  knows  only 
the  best  people^  our  circle  is  of  the  most  unex- 
ceptionable kind.  Last  evening  we  went  to  a 
ball  at  the  Tuileries.  I  wore  white  lace  over 
white  gros  de  Naples^  and  mamma  Avhite  lace 
over  blue  satin.  The  President  received  his 
guests,  standing.  He  is  a  cold,  resolute-looking 
man,  of  about  the  middle  hight.  He  bears 
himself  like  a  soldier,  and  looks  taller  than  he 
is.  He  and  Prince  Napoleon  strolled  about  the 
ball-room  in  the  course  of  the  evening.  He  was 
very  polite  to  mamma,  whose  first  husband,  I 
find,  held  some  appointment  which  brought 
him  into  communication  with  the  French  Gov- 
ernment. She  presented  me ;  and,  later  in  the 
evening,  I  had  the  honor  of  dancing  with  Prince 


Napoleon.  I  was  engaged  for  that  dance,  as  it 
happened,  to  the  Count  de  Chaumont ;  but  a 
royal  invitation  supersedes  every  other,  so  I 
danced  the  next  quadrille  with  the  Count  in- 
stead. The  Count  de  Chaumont  and  papa  are 
old  acquaintances,  and  knew  each  other  years 
ago  in  Brussels,  before  the  Count  had  succeeded 
to  his  title.  He  is  a  highly  distinguished  man, 
still  handsome,  and  very  dignified.  He  holds 
an  important  office  in  the  royal  household,  and 
admires  me  most  particularly.  Indeed,  my 
dear  sister,  you  would  be  surprised  to  see  how 
I  am  flattered  and  feted  wherever  I  go.  The 
Count  told  papa  last  night  that  I  was  the  belle 
of  the  season.  I  have  been  taking  riding-les- 
sons, and  next  week  am  to  ride  with  papa  in 
the  Bois.  He  says  I  shall  create  an  immense 
sensation  en  Amazone  ;  and  Mrs,  Churchill, 
who  no  longer  rides  on  horseback,  has  given 
me  her  habit,  which,  with  certain  alterations, 
fits  me  to  perfection.  In  short,  I  never  was  so 
happy.  I  can  not  understand  how  I  lived 
through  the  monotony  of  our  life  at  Zollen- 
strasse  ;  and  the  mere  recollection  of  that 
weary  College  overwhelms  me  with  ennui.  I 
ought  not  to  forget,  however,  that  I  owe  my 
knowledge  of  singing  to  Professor  Oberstein ; 
and  my  singing  is  one  of  my  successes.  I 
should  tell  you  of  an  exquisite  compliment  paid 

to   me  the  other  day  by  Monsieur  de  B , 

the  celebrated  historian.  '  Mademoiselle,'  he 
said,  '  the  race  of  Churchill  is  fatal  to  our  na- 
tion ;  and  I  foresee  that  you  are  destined  to 
carry  still  farther  the  conquests  which  your 
ancestor  began.'  And  now,  my  dear  Barbara 
adieu.  This  is  a  long  letter,  and  must  conten 
you  for  some  weeks  ;  for  my  life  is  a  perpetua 
engagement,  and  I  never  have  an  hour  that  I 
can  call  my  own.  Mamma  desires  her  love  to 
you.  Papa  is  gone  to  call  on  the  Count  de 
Chaumont,  or  he  would  doubtless  desire  some 
message.  Once  more,  adieu,  dear  sister,  and 
believe  me,  etc.,  etc." 

I  read  it  to  the  end,  and  sat  silent, 

"  Well,  Barbara,"  cried  Ida,  "  what  does  she 
say  to  your  success  ?  How  did  your  father  re- 
ceive it?  Oh,  I  wish  I  had  been  there  when 
they  opened  the  letter  !" 

"  Hilda  says  nothing  at  all  about  it,"  replied 
I,  trying  to  look  indifferent. 

"Nothing  at  all?"  repeated  Ida.  "But  you 
wrote  the  day  after  the  competition — you  wrote 
on  purpose !" 

"  Quite  ti'ue." 

"  Then  the  letter  miscarried !" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"  But — but  are  you  sure  she  does  not  men- 
tion it  ?"  persisted  Ida. 

I  folded  the  letter,  and  put  it  in  my  pocket. 

"  Hilda  names  the  College  but  once,"  said  I, 
"  and  then  only  to  wonder  how  she  could  have 
endured  it  so  long.  She  never  mentions  the 
competition." 

"  Unkind !  ungenerous !"  exclaimed  Ida,  pas 
sionately.     "  If  I  were  in  your  place " 

"  If  you  were  in  my  place,  dear,  you  would 
forgive  it  as  I  forgive  it — forget  it,  as  I  shall  try 
to  forget  it ;  and — and " 

"  And  become  famous  in  spite  of^  them !" 
cried  the  warm-hearted  little  Bavarian,  throw- 
ing her  arms  about  my  neck.  "  Yes,  Barbara, 
you  shall  force  them  to  care  for  it !     You  shall 


72 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


force  them  to  be  proud  of  you  !  Think  of  the 
future  that  lies  before  you.  Think  of  all  that 
you  have  already  done^-think  of  all  that  you 
have  yet  to  do.  What  matter  if  Hilda  is  care- 
less of  your  success — Hilda  or  any  one — so  long 
as  the  success  is  fairly  achieved  ?  Come,  cheer 
up !  Let  us  forget  all  about  the  letter  and 
think  only  of  this  exquisite  panel  with  the  vin- 
tagers in  the  foreground  !"  . 

Saying  thus,  she  took  my  hands  in  hers,  and 
dragged  me  playfully  back  to  my  work.  But 
the  charm  of  the  task  was  gone.  The  color 
that  I  had  laid  in  half  an  hour  ago  looked 
muddy  and  indecisive,  and  I  effaced  my  morn- 
ing's labor  at  the  first  touch. 

"  Oh,  Barbara !"  cried  my  friend.  "All  those 
lovely  vine-leaves  sacrificed  !" 

"  And  quite  rightly,"  said  a  voice  at  the  door. 

It  was  Professor  Metz,  returning  from  his 
one  o'clock  dinner.  He  wore  a  round  straw- 
hat  and  a  holland  coat,  and  carried  a  red  um- 
brella to  shade  him  from  the  sun. 

"And  quite  rightly,"  he  repeated,  walking 
straight  up  to  the  picture,  umbrella  and  all.  "I 
had  a  vast  mind  to  draw  my  brush  across  them 
before  I  went  out ;  but  I  thought  it  best  to  let 
Mademoiselle  make  the  discovery  herself" 

"  What  discovery,  mein  Professor  ?"  said  Ida, 
timidly.     "  They  were  very  like." 

"  Too  like,  Fraulein." 

"  Too  like,  mein  Professor  ?" 

"  Yes.  Too  labored,  too  literal,  too  minute. 
Flowers,  young  ladies,  should  be  treated  like 
heads — with  character  and  freedom.  Compare 
the  leaves  which  were  painted  here  just  now 
with  that  Van  Huysum  that  you  had  in  the 
class-room  last  spring.  The  one  is  a  Denner  ; 
the  other  a  Titian  !" 

Having  said  this,  he  laid  aside  the  hat  and 
umbrella,  seized  his  own  brushes,  and  plunged 
into  his  work.  A  dead  silence  followed.  The 
Professor  never  spoke  when  he  was  painting, 
and  so  hated  interruption  that  we  often  worked 
on  for  hours  in  the  pavilion  without  exchanging " 
a  syllable.  Presently  Ida  rose,  and  Avent  quietly 
away ;  and  then  nothing  was  audible  save  the 
moist  dragging  of  our  brushes,  the  humming  of 
the  insects  outside,  and  the  distant  rumble  of 
an  occasional  vehicle. 

Hilda's  letter  had  pained  me  more  than  I 
cared  to  confess.  It  came  between  me  and  my 
Avork,  and  I  could  not  banish  it.  I  felt  that  I 
was  very  lonely,  and  I  knew  that  I  must  accept 
my  solitude  sooner  or  later.  Then  Hugh's  bit- 
ter warning  came  back  to  my  memory,  as  if 
written  there  in  letters  of  fire.  "  Beware  of 
such  empty  words  as  home,  or  love,  or  friend- 
ship. Devote  yourself  to  your  art.  Make  it 
your  home,  your  lover,  your  friend.  Live  in  it 
— die  for  it."  Alas !  were  they  really  "  empty 
words  ?"  Must  I,  indeed,  make  up  my  mind  to 
the  barrenness  of  life,  and  forget  that  I  have  a 
father,  a  sister,  and  a  home  ? 

Profoundly  dejected,  I  painted  on,  effacing 
each  touch  as  soon  as  made,  and  pausing  every 
now  and  then  for  very  lassitude.  Startled  from 
one  of  these  pauses  by  the  pressure  of  a  heavy 
hand  upon  my  shoulder,  I  found  the  Professor 
standing  by  my  side. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Fraulein  ?"  he  asked, 
bending  a  searching  glance  upon  me.  "  Why 
do  you  weep  ?" 


"  I  am  not  weeping,  sir." 

He  touched  my  cheek  significantly.  It  was 
wet  with  unconscious  tears. 

"  I — I  did  not  know — I  am  not  well,"  I 
stammered. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  You  are  not  happy,"  he  said,  with  unusual 
gentleness.  "  There — put  away  your  work  for 
to-day.  One  can  not  paint  when  the  mind  is 
out  of  tune." 

"  I  am  very  sorry " 

"  Nay,  you  will  do  better  to-morrow.  Have 
you  bad  news  from  home  ?" 

"  No,  mein  Professor." 

"  What  is  it,  then  ?  Come,  Fraiilein,  tell  me 
your  trouble,  and  let  me  help  you  if  I  can." 

"  You  can  not  help  me,"  I  said,  brokenly. 
"  You  are  very  kind,  but  — ■ —  " 

The  Professor  frowned,  and  shook  his  head 
again. 

"  Fraiilein  Barbara,"  said  he,  "  you  have  com- 
mon-sense. Yours  is  not  a  merely  sentimental 
trouble.  You  are  not  one  of  those  young  ladies 
who  think  it  pleasant  to  be  melancholy,  and  cry 
for  want  of  something  better  to  do.  You  have 
a  grief.  Well,  fight  through  it  alone  if  you  are 
able.  You  will  be  all  the  wiser -«ind  stronger 
hereafter.  But  if  you  want  counsel,  or  help,  or 
any  thing  that  I  can  give  you,  come  to  me," 

Greatly  touched  by  this  unusual  demarche  on 
the  part  of  our  terrible  Professor,  I  tried  to  ex- 
press my  thanks,  but  he  stopped  me  at  the  first 
word. 

"  Hush,  hush,  nonsense !"  said  he  abruptly. 
"  Put  away  your  work.  Put  away  your  work, 
and  go  for  a  walk.  Make  haste,  and  leave  me 
in  peace." 

I  made  what  haste  I  could ;  but  while  I  was 
yet  cleaning  up  brushes  and  pallet,  I  heard 
voices  in  conversation  close  beside  the  open 
window. 

"  The  cactus,"  said  one  of  the  speakers,  with 
a  strong  German  accent,  "  is  doubtless  of  the 
same  family  as  the  Euphorbias.  Have  you  seen 
any  specimens  of  the  melon  genus  ?  They  have 
one,  I  understand,  in  Paris." 

"  I  have  not  seen  it  in  the  Jardin  des  Plantes," 
repUed  a  second  speaker,  whom  I  at  once  recog- 
nized as  Hugh  Farquhar ;  "  but  I  have  had  my 
mule  lamed  by  its  thorns  in  the  deserts  of  South- 
Africa." 

"  But  the  juice  is  not  unwholesome." 

"  By  no  means.  Traveler  and  mule  are  alike 
thankful  for  it,  Bernardin  St.  Pierre  calls  these 
succulent  cacti  '  the  vegetable  fountains  of  the 
desert.'  I  have  a  sketch  of  the  melon-cactus 
which  I  shall  be  happy  to  place  at  your  High- 
ness's  disposal," 

The  Grand  Duke  thanked  him,  and  the  voices 
passed  away.  Before  I  could  tie  6n  my  bonnet 
and  escape,  they  became  audible  again,  and  again 
approached  the  window. 

"And  the  sketcher,"  said  the  Grand  Duke, 
"  has  the  privilege  of  perpetuating  his  travels. 
He  can  revisit  his  favorite  scenes,  and  renew  his 
first  impressions,  whenever  he  chooses  to  open 
his  folio," 

"  The  memory  needs  some  such  assistance," 
replied  Hugh.  "Impressions  of  scenery  fade 
from  the  mind,  like  imperfect  photographs,  and 
the  keenest  observer  can  not  long  continue  to  re- 
call them.     Who,  for  instance,  after  the  lapse  of 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


73 


half  a  year,  could  accurately  reproduce  the  out- 
Ime  of  a  chain  of  Alps  ?" 

"  Who,  indeed !  But  shall  we  step  in  here, 
and  see  how  the  panels  are  progressing  in  my 
pavilion  ?" 

They  came  in.  The  Professor  rose  to  receive 
them. 

"What,  Barbara?"  said  Hugh,  with  out- 
stretched hand,  and  a  smile  of  frank  surprise. 
"  I  never  thought  to  find  you  here  !" 

"  Sit  down,  sit  down,  Herr  Metz,"  said  the 
Duke,  with  voluble  good-humor.  "  Do  not  let 
me  interrupt  the  work.  Ha !  the  English  Fraii- 
lein  who  carried  off  our  gold  medal  the  other 
day  !  Good  —  good !  Young  lady,  you  have 
but  to  work  hard,  and  obey  Professor  ketz,  and 
you  can  not  fail  to  become  a  fine  painter.  Re- 
member that  perseverance  is  to  genius  what  fuel 
is  to  the  locomotive.  However  perfect  the  ma- 
chine, it  is  of  no  value  without  the  fire  thatpro- 
pels,  or  the  engineer  who  guides.  What  say 
you.  Professor  ?     What  say  you  ?" 

"  Your  Highness  has  defined  perseverance  as 
the  fuel,"  said  the  Professor,  bluntly ;  "  but  who 
is  the  engineer  ?" 

"  Yourself —  myself — the  Academy,"  replied 
the  Duke,  somewhat  embarrassed  by  the  detec- 
tion of  a  flaw  in  his  simile. 

The  Professor  looked  as  if  he  should  have 
liked  to  say  something  about  this  plurality  of 
engineers ;  but  he  bowed  instead,  and  held  his 
tongue. 

"  And  what  progress  has  been  made  ?"  con- 
tinued the  Duke.  "  Has  the  Herr  Professor  suc- 
ceeded in  striking  out  any  spark  of  picturesque- 
ness  from  our  stoUd  peasant-folk  ?  So  —  the 
vintage  —  the  Kirmess  —  the  Schiitzen-fest  — 
excellent  subjects  —  excellent  subjects  !  Herr 
Farquhar,  permit  me  to  introduce  to  you  Pro- 
fessor Metz,  our  Director  of  Fine  Arts,  Hof- 
maler,  and  Academic  Lecturer  —  a  Zollenstras- 
ser  of  whom  ZoUenstrasse  is  proud.  This  gen- 
tleman, Professor  Metz,  is  a  connoisseur,  a 
sketcher,  and  a  traveler,  who  has  exhausted 
every  quarter  of  the  globe." 

The  Professor  bowed  again ;  and,  having  taken 
the  Duke  at  his  word,  went  on  painting.  He 
was  evidently  in  no  mood  for  chatting,  and 
wished  his  visitors  further. 

"  That  is  a  charming  sky,"  said  the  Grand 
Duke  with  the  air  of  a  dilett'ante. 

"  Yes ;  a  sky  under  which  one  could  breathe, 
without  feehng  that  all  above  the  clouds  was  a 
dome  of  blue  paint,"  replied  Hugh. 

"  That's  very  true,"  said  the  Duke.  "  Why 
do  our  landscape  painters  make  their  cobalts  so 
solid  ?" 

*'  Because  they  will  not  take  the  trouble  to  re- 
member that  we  have  fifty  miles  of  atmosphere 
above  our  heads.  The  spectator  should  be  able 
to  look  through  an  open  sky,  as  we  seem  to  look 
through  this  ;  conscious  of  depth  beyond  depth, 
and  distance  beyond  distance." 

The  Professor  glanced  up  sharply ;  but  still 
said  nothing. 

"  What  do  you  mean  to  have  for  your  fore- 
ground object,  Professor  Metz?"  asked  the 
Grand  Duke,  presently. 

"  Nothing,  your  Highness." 

"  Nothing  !  Why,  I  thought  it  was  a  canon 
of  art  to  have  some  foreground  object  to  throw 
back  the  distance.    A^-  a  figure,  for  instance  ; 


or  a  fallen  tree  ;  or  a  piece  of  rock  ;  or  some- 
thing ?" 

"  I  trust  my  distance  will  keep  its  place  with- 
out needing  any  device  of  that  sort,  your  High- 
ness," growled  the  Professor. 

Leopold  the  Eighteenth  smoothed  out  his 
cream  colored  moustache  and  looked  puzzled. 

"  Still  there  are  canons,"  persisted  he ;  "  such 
as  the  division  of  a  picture  in  three  parts  ;  the 
proportions  of  light  and  shadow  as  three  to  five ; 
the  pyramidal  grouping  of  principal  objects ;  the 
introduction  of " 

"All  mischievous  pedantry,  your  Highness," 
interrupted  the  Professor.  "  Such  canons  may 
do  very  well  for  cooks.     They  ruin  painters." 

The  Duke  smiled  furtively,  and  offered  the 
Professor  a  cigar. 

"  Thanks,  your  Highness.  I  never  smoke  till 
evening," 

"  Then  put  it  in  your  cigar-case.  It  is  of  a 
very  rare  quality." 

Sulkily  polite,  the  Professor  accepted  it. 

"  And  I  have  a  folio  of  etchings  to  show  you 
— just  arrived  from  Paris  —  containing  some 
fine  proofs  of  Rembrandt  and  Albert  Diirer. 
Will  you  join  the  dinner-party  at  the  Residenz 
this  evening,  Professor  Metz,  and  oblige  me  with 
your  opinion  on  my  purchase  ?" 

"Impossible,  your  Highness,"  blurted  out  the 
Professor,  utterly  disregardful  of  the  etiquette 
attaching  to  a  royal  invitation.  "  I  am  not  used 
to  court  dinners  —  I'm  —  I'm  a  very  plain  man 
—  your  Highness  must  excuse  me." 

His  Highness  looked  infinitely  amused. 

"  As  the  Herr  Professor  pleases,"  said  he. 
"  But  if  I  excuse  him  at  dinner,  I  hold  him  en- 
gaged to  join  our  party  at  coffee. " 

"  I  am  at  his  Highness's  command,"  replied 
the  maestro,  reluctantly. 

The  Duke  led  the  way  to  a  door  at  the  farther 
end  of  the  room. 

"  Before  we  go,  Herr  Farquhar,"  said  he,  "  I 
should  like  you  to  see  the  view  from  the  Bel- 
vedere.    Will  you  follow  me  ?" 

Whereupon  Hugh  followed,  and  they  both 
went  up-stairs. 

"  Mein  Gott !"  exclaimed  the  Professor,  wip- 
ing his  forehead  with  every  sign  of  trepidation. 
"  Why  won't  these  confounded  aristocrats  leave 
a  man  alone  ?  Ah,  Fraulein  Barbara,  you  are 
escaping  while  you  can.  Quite  wise.  I  have  a 
vast  mind  to  do  the  same." 

"  Oh,  no,  mein  Professor  !  What  would  the 
Grand  Duke  think,  if  he  found  no  one  here  ?" 

His  eyes  wandered  affectionately  toward  the 
red  umbrella. 

"  I'm  afraid  you  are  right ;  and  yet " 

"  Good  morning,  sir." 

"  Humph  !  good  morning," 

I  ran  down  the  steps  of  the  pavilion,  and 
turned  into  the  first  shady  side  walk  that  offered. 
The  Professor  had  given  me  a  half-holiday,  and 
I  scarcely  knew  what  to  do  with  my  liberty.  I 
had  no  inclination  to  spend  it  in  the  Academy ; 
and  still  less  to  waste  it  in  the  park,  or  the  Hof- 
garten,  or  any  frequented  place.  After  a  few 
moments'  consideration,  I  decided  upon  the 
Botanic  Garden;  a  secluded,  quiet  spot,  just 
beyond  the  Leopold  Thor,  where  the  public 
could  only  obtain  admission  by  favor,  and  where 
we  Academy  students  had  a  right  of  perpetual 
entree. 


74 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


I  had  not  far  to  go.  As  I  passed  in  at  the 
little  side-gate,  the  old  doorkeeper  said — 

"  You  have  it  all  to  yourself,  Fraulein. 
There  hasn't  been  a  soul  here  to  day." 

It  was  just  what  I  would  have  asked  for. 
Restless  and  dissatisfied,  I  needed  solitude ;  and 
the  solitude  here  was  perfect.  I  walked  to  and 
fro  for  some  time  among  the  deserted  paths, 
and  presently  sought  out  a  grassy  slope  where 
the  garden  went  down  to  the  river's  edge. 
Sitting  there  in  the  shade  of  a  group  of  foreign 
trees,  and  lulled  by  the  gentle  rippling  of  the 
stream  among  the  reeds,  I  fell  into  a  profound 
train  of  thought. 

The  future — what  should  I  do  with  the 
future  ?  I  felt  like  one  who  has  climbed  the 
brow  of  a  great  hill,  and  finds  only  a  sea  of  mist 
beyond.  Go  forward  I  must ;  but  to  what  goal  ? 
With  what  aim  ?  With  what  ho'pes  ?  My 
father  had  already  distinctly  forbidden  me  to 
adopt  art  as  a  profession.  My  sister,  by  ignor- 
ing all  the  purport  of  my  last  letter,  as  distinctly 
signified  her  own  contempt  for  that  which  was 
to  me  as  the  life  of  my  life.  Neither  loved  me ; 
both  had  wounded  me  bitterly ;  and  I  now, 
almost  for  the  first  time,  distinctly  saw  how 
difficult  a  struggle  lay  before  me. 

"  If  I  become  a  painter,"  I  thought,  "  I  be- 
come so  in  defiance  of  my  family  ;  and  defying 
them,  am  alone  in  the  wide  world  evermore. 
If,  on  the  contrary,  I  yield  and  obey,  what 
manner  of  life  lies  before  me  ?  The  hollow  life 
of  fashionable  society,  into  which  I  shall  be  car- 
ried as  a  marriageable  commodity,  and  where  I 
shall  be  expected  to  fulfill  my  duty  as  a  daughter 
by  securing  a  wealthy  husband  as  speedily  as 
possible." 

Alas  !  alas  !  what  an  alternative  !  Was  it  for 
this  that  I  had  studied  and  stpiven  ?  Was  it  for 
this  that  I  had  built  such  fairy  castles,  and 
dreamt  such  dreams  ? 

Lost  in  these  thoughts,  I  heard,  but  scarcely 
heeded,  a  rapid  footstep  on  the  graveled  walk 
above.  Not  till  that  footstep  left  the  gravel  for 
the  grass,  and  a  well-known  voice  called  me  fa- 
miliarly by  name,  did  I  even  look  up  to  see  who 
the  intruder  might  be.     It  was  Hugh. 

"  Why,  Barbara,"  said  he,  running  down  the 
slope,  and  flinging  himself  upon  the  bank  by 
my  side,  "  I  almost  despaired  of  finding  you.  I 
have  been  twice  round  the  gardens  already ; 
and  but  for  the  gatekeeper,  who  declared  he  had 
not  let  you  out  since  he  let  you  in,  I  should 
certainly  have  given  you  up,  and  gone  away." 

" How  did  you  know  I  was  here?" 

"  Easily  enough.  I  saw  you  from  the  Belve- 
dere up  yonder — traced  you  down  the  path,  and 
all  along  the  road,  and  in  at  the  side-gate — and 
here  I  find  you,  sitting  by  the  river- side,  like 
Dorothea  in  the  Brown  Mountain." 

"  It  is  my  favorite  nook,"  I  replied ;  "  the 
quietest  spot  in  all  this  quiet  garden." 

"  Quiet  enough,  certainly,"  said  Hugh,  yawn- 
ing.    "  Might  one  smoke  here,  think  you?" 

"  I  should  say  so.     The  gardeners  do." 

"  And  your  majesty  has  no  objection  ?" 

"My  majesty  has  filled  your  hookah  often 
enough  at  Broomhill,  Hugh,  to  be  tolerably  well 
seasoned  by  this  time." 

"  So  you  have,  Barbara  mia — so  you  have." 

And  with  this  he  lighted  his  cigar,  lay  down 
at  full  length  on  the  grass,  and  amused  himself 


for   some    time    by   sending   up    little    spiral 
wreaths  of  smoke  into  the  still  air. 

"  I  expected  to  find  yon  sketching,"  said  he, 
after  a  long  interval  of  silence. 

"  Sketching  ?  Why,  there  is  nothing  here  to 
sketch." 

"  Plenty,  I  should  say — tropical  plants,  strange 
trees,  orchids,  cacti " 

"  But  I  am  not  a  flower-painter.'' 

"  Nonsense,  Barbarina.  That  is  just  one  of 
the  rocks  that  so  many  painters  split  upon. 
They  fancy  they  must  be  either  flower-painters,  or 
landscape-painters,  or  figure-painters;  and  that 
in  order  to  be  one  of  these,  they  are  bound  to  be 
ignorant  of  the  other  tw'o.  And  yet  no  man 
was  ever  truly  great  who  could  not,  to  a  certain 
extent,  combine  all  three.  If  Raffaelle  but 
places  a  lily  in  the  hand  of  a  Madonna,  or  in- 
troduces a  paroquet  among  the  ornaments  of  an 
arabesque,  he  paints  them  as  though  flowers  and 
birds  had  been  the  study  of  his  life.  If  Rubens 
undertakes  a  landscape  background,  he  almost 
makes  us  regret  that  he  ever  painted  any  thing 
else.  The  mind  of  the  artist  should  be  the 
mirror  of  nature,  reflecting  all  things,  and 
neglecting  none." 

"  That  sounds  terribly  like  the  truth,  Hugh  ; 
and  yet  who  can  hope  to  be  universal  ?" 

"  That  which  has  been,  may  be,"  said  he 
oracularly  ;  and  closed  his  eyes,  and  smoked  like 
a  lazy  Pacha. 

After  this,  we  both  sat  for  a  long  time  in 
silence,  with  the  golden  sunlight  creeping 
toward  us,  inch  by  inch,  across  the  fragrant 
grass.  Insensibly,  my  thoughts  flowed  back  to 
their  old  channel,  and  I  felt  quite  bewildered 
when  Hugh  broke  in  suddenly  upon  my  reverie. 

"  I  have  been  indulging  in  the  queerest  chain 
of  fantastic  speculations  during  this  last  quarter 
of  an  hour,"  exclaimed  he  ;  "  and  all  a  propos 
of  those  same  orchids  and  cacti.  There  will  be 
a  great  revolution  in  the  world  some  day,  Bar- 
bara mia !" 

"  Will  there  ?"  said  I,  dreamily.     "  When  ?" 

"  Ten  or  twelve  thousand  years  hence,  per- 
haps." 

"  Then  what  can  it  matter  to  us  ?" 

"  Matter,  child  ?  Why,  in  a  scientific  point  of 
view,  every  thing.  You  might  as  well  say  what 
do  the  stars  matter  to  us  ?  There  are  few 
subjects  more  interesting  than  the  variations  of 
climate." 

"  Variations  of  climate  !"  I  repeated,  i'  What 
do  you  mean  ?  You  were  speaking  of  revolu- 
tions just  now." 

"  True ;  but  it  was  a  revolution  of  vegetables 
— not  men." 

"  How  absurd  !  Who  ever  heard  of  a  revo- 
lution of  vegetables !" 

He  laughed,  flung  away  the  end  of  his  cigar, 
raised  himself  on  his  elbow,  and  said  kindly : — 

"  What  a  child  you  are  still,  Barbara  !  Come, 
I  will  explain  myself  more  clearly,  and  tell  you 
what  my  fantastic  fancies  were.  Would  you 
care  to  hear  this?" 

"  Yes,  Hugh  ;  very  much." 

"In  the  first  place,  then,"  said  he,  "our 
mother  Natui-e  is  by  no  means  so  consistent  a 
lady  as  one  might  suppose  ;  but,  like  the  rest  of 
her  sex,  is  apt  to  change  her  mind.  She  is  con- 
tinually shifting  sea-bords,  varying  the  beds  of 
rivers,  and  experimenting  upon  the  mutability  of 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


T5 


matter.  Thus  we  find  ammonites*  and  oyster- 
shells  upon  ridges  of  the  Andes  thirteen  thou- 
sand feet  above  sea-level ;  and  fossil  fish  imbed- 
ded below  strata  of  petrified  forests.  Thus, 
also,  we  know  that  laud  and  sea  are  but  trans- 
ferable commodities  in  her  hands ;  that  where 
the  tides  of  oceans  now  ebb  and  flow,  continents 
may  some  day  be  upheaved  ;  and  that  Europe, 
with  all  her  treasures,  may  yet  be  obliterated 
from  the  surface  of  our  globe,  and  leave  not 
even  a  legend  of  her  glory." 

He  paused ;  passed  his  hand  over  his  fore- 
head, as  if  to  collect  his  thoughts ;  and  then, 
finding  me  attentive,  resumed  the  thread  of  his 
discourse. 

"  Of  all  Nature's  conditions,"  pursued  he, 
"  climates  and  products  are  among  the  most 
variable.  Fossilized  remains,  indicative  of  torrid 
heats,  are  found  underlying  the  upper  strata  of 
our  northern  lands,  and  the  beds  of-^many 
European  rivers  are  paved  with  the  bones  of 
elephants  and  other  'very  strange  beasts.'  I 
have  myself  been  present  at  the  opening  of  a 
cave  in  South  Devon,  where  the  skeletons  of 
hyenas,  tigers,  and  even  crocodiles  were  found 
in  abundance.  Now  these  facts  can  only  be 
explained  in  one  of  two  ways.  Either  the  cli- 
mates of  the  globe  have  varied  from  age  to  age ; 
or  some  vast  motive  power  has  transported  these 
remains  from  one  hemisphere  to  the  other.  For 
my  part,  I  go  with  those  who  attribute  the 
phenomena  to  mutability  of  climate,  consequent 
on  the  shifting  of  the  poLs.  I  believe  that 
they  have  not  only  shifted,  but  are  shifting ; 
that  the  face  of  the  world  has  not  only  changed, 
but  is  changing ;  and  that  what  once  was,  will 
surely  be  again." 

"  Yet  these  great  changes  were  Pre-adamite," 
I  ventured  to  suggest,  "and  perhaps  only  pre- 
pared  the   worl(f  for   man's   habitation.     Is  it 

likely  they  would  be  renewed  now,  when " 

"  Listen,"  interrupted  Hugh,  with  sudden 
vivacity  ;  "for  this  is  precisely  my  pet  theory. 
The  cactus  is  a  plant  indigenous  to  the  tropics, 
and  to  certain  districts  of  the  new  continent. 
In  Peru,  in  Chili,  on  the  table-lands  of  the 
Andes,  and  on  the  banks  of  the  Amazon,  it  is 
equally  familiar  to  the  traveler ; .  and  yet  of  late 
years — nay,  within  the  last  quarter  of  a  century 
— it  has  spread  mysteriously  through  North- 
Africa  and  Syria,  and  naturalized  itself  in  Greece 
and  Italy.  What  is  the  evident  deduction  ? 
What  if  this  migration  be  the  herald  of  strange 
changes  ?  What  if  we  are  about  to  return  by 
gradual  but  perceptible  degrees  to  that  tempera- 
ture which,  in  ages  past,  is  known  to  have 
fostered  the  bamboo  and  zamia  on  the  plains  of 
France,  peopled  with  apes  the  Isle  of  Sheppey, 
and  crowned  the  promontories  of  Portland  with 
forests  of  the  Indian  palm  ?" 

"  It  is  a  large  inference  to  draw  from  the  mi- 
gration of  a  single  plant,"  said  I. 

"  And  then  think  of  all  that  it  would  lead 
to,"  continued  he,  with  unabated  eagerness. 
"  Think  of  the  difference  it  would  make  in  our 
manners  and  customs,  our  civilization,  our  mo- 
rale, our  politics !  Fancy  the  Belgian  flats  turned 
into  rice -fields,  and  crocodiles  sunning  them- 
selves on  the  meadow-islands  of  the  Rhine ! 
Fancy  a  lion-hunt  in  the  New  Forest !  Fancy 
honorable  members  going  down  to  the  house  in 
palanquins,  and  the  premier  taking  out  his  stud 


of  elephants  for  a  little  tiger-shooting  in  Sep- 
tember !"  • 

"  Fancy  yourself  with  a  shaved  head  and  a 
turban,"  said  I,  laughing.  "  Fancy  Broomhill 
fitted  up  with  punkahs  and  musquito  curtains ; 
and  think  how  its  master  would  look  reposing 
on  a  divan,  with  slaves  fanning  him  to  sleep  !" 

"  Oh,  prophet  Mohammed !"  exclaimed  he,  "  I 
should  buy  beautiful  Circassians  in  the  Marche 
des  Innocents !" 

"  But,  Hugh,  supposing  that  all  these  thinga 
really  took  place,  and  we  could  live  to  see  them, 
should  we,  or  our  descendants,  get  brown,  or 
copper-colored,  or  black?  What  a  dreadful 
thing  that  would  be  !" 

"  Ah,  that  is  another  and  more  difficult  ques- 
tion still,"  said  he,  gravely.  "It  involves  the 
vexed  topics  of  race  and  climate ;  and  leads  one 
into  a  thousand  labyrinths  of  speculation.  1  be- 
lieve that  color  and  type  result  from  custom  and 
locality.  I  believe  that  we  should  degenerate  in 
form,  darken  in  hue,  and,  after  a  few  generations 
lose  every  trace  of  our  Caucasian  origin.  Take 
the  Americans  for  instance.  Gathered  together 
from  all  the  shores  of  the  old  world,  they  have, 
as  it  were,  received  a  type  of  nationality  from 
the  very  soil  on  which  they  dwell  —  a  type 
which  becomes  apparent  in  every  second  gener- 
ation of  emigrants." 

"In  short,  then,  to  change  climates  would 
simply  be  to  change  states  with  the  Asiatic." 

"  Ay  ;  and  some  day  the  Hindoo  race,  grown 
warlike  and  hardy,  would  pour  down  upon  our 
feeble  millions,  ransack  our  treasuries,  farm  out 
our  royalties,  and  lord  it  over  us  as  we  now  lord 
it  at  Calcutta.  Faith !  the  picture  is  complete." 
Whereupon,  we  rose,  for  the  sun  was  now 
full  in  our  eyes,  and  strolled  toward  the  hot- 
houses. There  Hugh  showed  me  some  strange 
plants  ;  described  the  places  where  they  grew ; 
the  uses  to  which  they  were  put ;  and  the  cir- 
cumstances under  which  he  had  seen  them  when 
traveling  in  the  far  East.  Anecdote,  illustra- 
tion, and  jest,  flowed  from  his  lips  that  after- 
noon with  the  same  freshness  and  abundance 
that  used  to  charm  my  childish  imagination 
years  ago  ;  and  I  almost  fancied,  as  I  listened, 
that  I  was  back  again  sitting  at  his  feet  in  my 
aunt's  quiet  parlor,  or  turning  over  the  folios  in 
the  Hogarth  room  at  Broomhill. 

By  and  by,  the  clocks  of  Zollenstrasse  struck 
five,  at  which  hour  the  students  had  cofiee,  be- 
fore going  for  their  evening  walk ;  so  I  bade 
Hugh  a  hurried  good-by,  and  we  parted  at  the 
gate.  Before  I  had  gone  many  yards,  however, 
I  paused,  looked  round,  found  that  he  was  still 
gazing  after  me,  and  so  turned  back  again. 

"  One  more  word,  Hugh,"  I  said,  breathless- 
ly.    "  What  would  it  cost  to  go  to  Rome  ?" 
"  To  Rome  ?    From  what  point  ?" 
"From  here." 
"  Why  do  you  ask  ?" 
"  No  matter  —  I  want  to  know." 
"Well,  I  can  hardly  tell.     It  would  cost  me, 
perhaps,  a  hundred  pounds ;  but  then  I'm  not 
an  economical  traveler.     I  dare  say  a  modest, 
quiet,   steady-going  fellow,  who  did  not  stop  to 
sketch  and  dawdle  on  the  way,  might  do  it  for 
half,  or  even  a  quarter  of  that  sum." 

"  And  I  suppose  one  might  live  and  lodge 
there  for  about  a  pound  a.  week  ?" 

"  Yes,  no  doubt.     I  question  if  many  of  the 


TQ 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


poor  devils  of  artists  in  the  Yia  Margutta  have 
as  much." 

"  Thank  you.     Once  more,  good-by." 

"But,  Barbara  —  I  say,  Barbara " 

However,  I  did  not  want  to  be  questioned,  so 
I  only  shook  my  head,  and  ran  away. 

*'  Twenty  pounds !"  said  I,  unconsciously 
thinking  aloud,  as  I  sat  on  the  side  of  the  bed, 
that  night,  before  putting  out  the  candle. 
"  Twenty  pounds,  at  least,  for  the  journey,  and 
then  fifty  more  for  a  year's  living  !  Oh,  dear 
me  !  how  could  I  ever  save  all  that  out  of  six- 
teen pounds  per  annum  ?" 

"  What  did  you  say,  Barbara  ?"  murmured 
Ida,  sleepily,  from  her  bed  in  the  corner. 
To  which  I  only  replied  — 
"  Nothing,  Liebchen.     Good  night." 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 

THE     PIPER     OP     HAMELIN. 

"  Hamelin  town's  in  Brunswick, 
By  famous  Hanover  city ; 

The  river  Weser,  deep  and  wide, 

Washes  its  wall  on  the  southern  side ; 

A  pleasanter  spot  you  never  spied ; 
But,  when  begins  my  ditty, 

Almost  five  hundred  years  ago, 

To  see  the  townsfolk  suflfer  so 

From  vermin  was  a  pity. 

Rats !"  Robert  Browning. 

"Bring  me  back  yoursel',  Jamie." 

Scotch  Song, 

"  My  dear  little  Barbara,"  said  Hugh,  taking 
possession  of  the  Professor's  painting  stool,  and 
advantage  of  the  Professor's  dinner-hour,  "  I 
am  very  glad  to  find  you  alone ;  for  I  have  come 
to  say  good-by.  I  am  going  to  St.  Petersburgh." 

I  felt  myself  turn  scarlet  and  then  pale. 

"To  St.  Petersburgh?"  I  repeated. 

"Ay.  It  is  one  of  the  places  I  have  not 
yet  visited,  and  I  have  a  mind  to  become  ac- 
quainted with  our  friend  the  Russ,  in  his  own 
capital.  I  want  to  see  what  is  the  actual  differ- 
ence between  Ivan  the  prince,  who  rents  his  hotel 
in  the  Chaussee  d'Antin  and  runs  his  horse  at 
Newmarket,  and  Ivan  the  boor,  who  leads  the 
life  of  a  beaten  hound,  and  drinks  brandy  from 
his  cradle." 

"  Is  this  a  sudden  resolution?" 

"Yes —  all  my  resolutions  are  sudden,  carina. 
I  am  the  slave  of  a  demon  whose  name  is 
Whim ;  and  when  he  casts  his  spells  about  me, 
I  can  not  choose  but  obey.  Did  you  never  hear 
of  the  Piper  of  Hamelin'?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"  Then,  Barbara,  your  education  has  been 
neglected.  Listen,  and  I  will  tell  you  the  story. 
Once  upon  a  time,  and  a  very  long  time  ago,  the 
town  of  Hamelin  in  Brunswick  was  infested  by 
a  plague  of  rats.  There  were,  in  fact,  more 
rats  than  townspeople ;  and  the  race  of  cats  was 
exterminated.  So  the  mayor  and  council  met 
to  discuss  the  matter,  and  decide  what  was  best 
to  be  done.  In  the  midst  of  their  conference, 
in  came  a  little  gnome-like  creature  clad  in  yel- 
low and  red,  carrying  a  flageolet  in  his  hand  — 
but  you  are  not  listening,  carina  .'" 

"Yes,  yes,  I  am  listening.     Pray,  go  on." 

"  And  this  queer  httle  piper  offered  to  spirit 
the  rats  clean  away,  for  the  small  consideration 
of  one  thousand  guilders.     The  Mayor  was  only 


too  glad  to  close  with  him ;  the  bargain  was 
struck ;  the  piper  set  up  a  quaint  melody  ;  and 
out  came  the  rats  from  cellar  and  sewer,  garret 
and  basement  —  red  rats,  gray  rats,  black  rats, 
rats  of  all  ages,  sizes,  and  colors— and  followed 
the  piper  by  thousands  through  the  main  street 
of  the  town,  right  down  to  the  banks  of  the  river 
Weser,  where  they  all  plunged  in  and  perished, 
like  the  host  of  Pharaoh." 

"But  what  has  this  to  do  with  your  journey 
to  St.  Petersburgh  ?" 

"Let- me  finish  my  legend  in  peace,  and  then 
I  will  tell  you.  Well,  when  the  rats  were  all 
drowned,  and  not  even  a  tail  of  one  was  left  be- 
hind, the  Mayor  repented  his  liberality,  and  de- 
clined to  sign  the  order  for  the  thousand  guild- 
ers. _ '  You  shall  have  ten,'  said  he,  '  and  a  bottle 
of  wine  ;  but  when  we  talked  of  paying  a  thou- 
sand, it  was  only  for  the  joke  of  it.'  '  Is  that  your 
last  word  on  the  matter,  Herr  Mayor  ?'  asked 
the  piper.  '  It  is  our  last  word,'  replied  the 
Mayor  and  Councilors,  all  together.  So  the 
piper  made  a  bow,  more  in  mockery  than  in  rev- 
erence ;  flung  the  ten  guilders  on  the  floor ; 
put  his  pipe  once  again  to  his  lips ;  and  walked 
straight  to  the  middle  of  the  market-place, 
where  he  took  up  his  station,  and  began  playing 
the  most  beautiful  tune  that  ever  was  heard  in 
Hamelin  before  or  since.  No  sooner,  however, 
had  he  begun  to  play,  than  such  a  pattering  of 
little  feet,  such  a  clapping  of  little  hands,  and 
sucl^  bursts  of  ringing  laughter  filled  the  air, 
that  the  piper's  music  was  nearly  silenced  in 
the  hubbub.  And  whence  came  all  this  riot,  do 
you  suppose  ?  Why,  from  all  the  children  in  the 
town  —  from  the  children  who  came  trooping 
out,  like  the  rats,  by  scores  and  hundreds,  with 
their,,  fair  hair  all  fluttering  behind  them,  and 
their  little  cheeks  flushed  with  pleasure — from 
the  children  who  escaped  frdhi  mothers  and 
nurses  at  the  sound  of  the  pipe,  and  followed 
the  piper,  as  the  rats  had  followed  him,  all  down 
the  main  street,  and  out  by  the  old  gate  leading 
down  to  the  Weser !  Only,  Barbara,  he  had 
not  the  heart  to  drown  the  pretty  babies.  He 
led  them  into  a  valley  at  the  foot  of  a  great 
black  mountain,  about  half  a  league  from  the 
walls ;  and  the  side  of  the  mountain  opened  to 
receive  them ;  and  there  they  all  are  to  this 
day,  shut  up  in  the  granite  heart  of  it,  waiting 
till  the  piper  shall  relent  from  his  vengeance 
and  bring  them  back  to  the  town.  Now  what 
say  you  to  my  legend  ?" 

"  That  it  is  charming,  as  a  legend,  but  very 
perplexing  as  an  explanation  of  your  St.  Peters- 
burgh journey." 

"  Is  it  possible  that  you  have  not  found  out 
that  my  demon  and  the  goblin  piper  are  one  and 
the  same  ;  and  that  when  he  pipes,  I  am  bound 
to  follow,  like  one  of  the  rats  of  Hamelin  ?  It 
pleases  him,  just  now,  to  pipe  to  a  Russian  tune, 
and  off  we  go  together, '  Hnked  With  the  Graces 
and  the  Hours  in  dance,'  and  cutting  the  most 
ludicrous  melancholy  figure  imaginable !" 

Something  in  his  manner,  something  in  the 
telling  of  the  story  and  the  comment  with  which 
it  ended,  convinced  me  that  he  was  ill  at  ease. 

"Do  not  treat  me  quite  as  a  child,  Mr. 
Farquhar,"  I  said,  earnestly.  "  You  have  some 
deeper  motive  for  undertaking  this  journey.  I 
do  not  desire  to  know  what  that  motive  may  be  ; 
but  I  am  sure  it  is  not  whim  alone." 


I 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


77 


He  turned  suddenly,  and  looked  at  me — then 
turned  as  suddenly  away. 

"  You  are  wrong,"  he  said,  "I  am  the  soul  of 
whim — the  sport  of  a  restless  fancy — the  crea- 
ture of  my  own  morbL^  imagination.  There  are 
in  toe  neither  motives,  nor  purposes,  nor  princi- 
ples of  action.  Like  the  thistledown,  I  veer 
with  every  wind ;  and,  like  the  wind,  am  '  every 
thing  by  turns,  and  nothing  long.'  I  have  the 
fancy  to  go  to  St.  Petersburgh,  and  I  am  going. 
Voild  tout  r 

'•  Then  I  wish  you  had  the  fancy  to  stay  here, 
instead,"  said  I,  sadly. 

"  Stay  here  ?  Not  for  the  world.  I  have 
staid  too  long  already." 

As  he  said  the  words,  a  shadow  darkened  the 
doorway,  and  Professor  Metz  came  in.  He 
looked  unusually  grave  ;  saluted  Mr.  Farquhar 
with  a  nod  and  a  scowl ;  and,  ungraciously^urn- 
ing  his  back  upon  us,  began  painting  away  as  if 
his  life  depended  on  it. 

"  A  fine  day,  Herr  Professor,"  said  Hugh,  va- 
cating the  stool  with  an  apologetic  bow. 

"  A  confoundedly  disagreeable  day,  to  my 
mind,"  growled  the  Professor. 

"Nay,  with  this  glorious  sunshine,  and  this 

refreshing  breeze ." 

"Lapland  in  the  shade,  and  the  infernal  re- 
gions in  the  sun,"  interrupted  the  Professor. 
"  I  hate  such  weather." 

"  The  panels  progress  rapidly,  Herr  Profes- 
sor," observed  Hugh,  after  a  brief  pause.    "  The 
effect,  when  complete,  will  be  charming." 
"  I  don't  think  so,"  retorted  the  Professor. 
"May  I  ask  why?" 

"  Because  the  shape  of  the  room  is  bad,  and 
the  light  is  bad,  and  the  designs  are  bad,  and 
the  whole  thing  is  a  failure." 
Hugh  laughed  outright. 
"The  Herr  Professor  has  certainly  left  his 
rose-colored  glasses  at  home  to-day,"  said  he 
good-humoredly.  "Happily,  he  will  find  no 
one  to  agree  in  his  verdict." 

The  Professor  muttered  something  inaudible 
about  "  public  opinion,"  and  then  became  so 
obstinately  silent  that,  after  one  or  two  abortive 
efforts  to  keep  up  the  conversation,  Hugh  was 
fain  to  take  up  his  hat  and  say  "  good  morn- 
ing." 

"  I  shall  come  round  to-night,  and  bid  you  a 
last  good-by,  Barbara,"  whispered  he,  as  we 
shook  hands. 

"Will  you  really — really?"  said  I,  the  tears 
starting  to  my  eyes. 

"  I  will  indeed,  my  dear,"  he  replied  very 
gently,  and  hurried  away  without  once  looking 
back. 

I  watched  him  out  of  sight,  and  was  just  re- 
turning to  my  own  work,  when  the  Professor 
flung  down  his  pallet  and  brushes,  faced  sud- 
denly round  upon  his  stool,  and  said — 

"I  must  give  you  another  holiday  to-day, 
Fraulein  Barbara." 

"Why  so,  miein  Professor?  I  had  rather 
get  forward  with  that  sky." 

"It  isn't  a  question  of  'rather,'"  grumbled 
he.  "You're  to  go  back  to  College;  Madame 
Brenner  wants  you." 

"  What  can  Madame  Brenner  want  with  me 
at  this  hour  of  the  day  ?" 

The  Professor  tugged  gloomily  at  hisiftious- 
tache  and  glared  at  me  without  replying. 


"  Still  I  suppose  I  must  go,"  said  I,  with  a 
sigh. 

"Ay,"  said  he  ;  "  you  must  go." 

I  put  on  my  bonnet  and  gloves,  and  went  to- 
ward the  door. 

"  Good-by,"  said  the  Professor. 

"  Good-by,  sir,"  I  replied.  "  I  shall  be  back 
again  very  soon." 

"No  you  won't"  said  the  professor,  holding 
out  his  hand. 

That  Professor  Metz  should  offer  to  shake 
hands  with  me  was  in  itself  such  a  wonderful 
occurrence,  that  I  had  scarcely  any  power  of 
astonishment  left ;  but  that  the  tears  should 
be  standing  in  his  fierce  little  gray  eyes  when 
our  palms  met,  was  a  phenomenon  so  utterly 
and  overwhelmingly  unexpected,  that  I  stared 
at  him  in  blank  amazement,  and  had  not  a  word 
to  say. 

"  Adieu,"  said  he,  holding  my  hand  loosely, 
and  yet  not  letting  it  go.     "  God  bless  you." 

"Mein  Professor,"  I  exclaimed,  with  a  sud- 
den presentiment,  "what  is  the  matter?  You 
are  bidding  me  farewell !" 

"Yes — go  —  "  he  replied,  abruptly.  "Go. 
I  am  bidding  you  farewell." 

"  But  I  will  not  go !  What  is  it  ?  What  does 
it  mean  ?" 

"  You  will  soon  know  what  it  means.  It  means 
that  I  am  a  superstitious  old  fool,  who  believes 
that  his  little  scholar  will  never  come  back  again. 
There,  go,  I  tell  you  !  Go  to  Madame  Brenner. 
She  is  waiting  for  you." 

I  ran  back  all  the  way  across  the  Hof-garten ; 
but,  when  within  a  few  yards  of  the  College 
gates,  lingered,  hesitated,  and  dreaded  to  go  in. 
I  felt  that  something  strange  and  sudden  was  at 
hand,  and  would  gladly  have  deferred  it,  if  I  could. 

"  The  Fraulein  is  to  go  up  to  Madame's  room," 
said  the  porter  at  the  gate  ;  and  so,  with  my  heart 
beating  fast,  I  obeyed. 

Madame  received  me  with  open  arms. 

"  Come  hither,  mein  Kind,"  she  exclaimed,  "  I 
have  news  for  you.  I  have  received  a  letter 
from  the  Herr,  your  father.  Such  news  !  Your 
sister  Hilda  is  about  to  be  married." 

"  Married  !"  I  repeated.     "  Hilda  married  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  in  ten  days  ;  and  you  are  to  go  im- 
mediately to  Paris,  to  be  present  at  the  wedding." 

I  sat  down  in  the  nearest  chair,  speechless.  I 
could  not  beheve  it. 

"  Though  how  you  are  to  travel  alone,  Gott  im 
Himmel  only  knows,"  said  Madame,  shaking  her 
head,  despairingly.  "  If  the  girls  were  not  all 
coming  back  this  week,  I  would  go  with  you  my- 
self; but  it  is  impossible  —  impossible  !  There 
are  the  Pfeffers,  to  be  sure  ;  but  they  can  not 
start  till  next  week  ;  and  the  Bachs  went  yester- 
day.    What  is  to  be  done  ?" 

"  May  I  see  the  letter,  Madame  ?" 

"  Ay,  to  be  sure.  And  then  there  are  your 
things  to  be  packed  ;  and  the  letter  says  you  are 
to  go  immediately.  How  are  you  to  go  immedi- 
ately, my  child,  without  even  a  passport  —  much 
less  an  escort  ?" 

I  took  the  letter,  written  in  my  father's  dash- 
ing hand,  and  sealed  with  his  massive  seal.  It 
ran  as  follows :  — 

"  Esteemed  Madame, 

"  I  have  the  honor  of  informing  you  that 
my  daughter,  Hilda  Churchill,  your  late  pupil, 


78 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


was  last  evening  betrothed  to  His  Excellency 
the  Count  Hippolyte  Amad^e  de  Chaumont, 
late  plenipotentiary  at  the  Court  of  Brussels, 
Chevalier  of  the  Order  of  St.  Esprit,  etc.,  etc., 
etc.  My  daughter's  marriage  will  take  place  in 
ten  days  from  the  present  date.  We  desire  the 
immediate  presence  of  my  youngest  daughter, 
to  whom  be  pleased  to  communicate  the  fore- 
going intelligence.  I  regret  that  it  is  not  in  my 
power  personally  to  conduct  her  from  Zollen- 
strasse  to  Paris  ;  but  I  trust  that  it  may  be  found 
possible  to  place  her  under  the  protection  of 
some  respectable  family  traveling  in  the  same 
direction.  Be  so  obliging,  if  you  please,  Ma- 
dame, as  to  let  me  know  by  an  early  post,  at 
what  hour,  and  by  what  conveyance,  I  may 
expect  her  arrival. 

"  Accept,  Madame,  my  distinguished  compli- 
ments, and  believe  me  to  be  your  obedient  ser- 
vant. 

"Edmund  Churchill." 

"  It  is  a  grand  match,"  said  Madame  Bren- 
ner, admiringly  ;  "  a  wonderful  match  !  She  will 
be  Madame  la  Comtesse  —  only  think  of  that, 
Barbara  !  No  mere '  Gnddige  Frau^  or  '  Frau 
Oeheimrath  ;''  but  Madame  la  Comtesse  de  (?hau- 
mont !" 

"  I  hope  she  loves  him  dearly,"  said  I. 

"Loves  him?  You  may  depend,  she  adores" 
him,"  replied  Madame,  whose  tender  German 
heart  was  brimful  of  sentiment.  "  Young,  noble, 
handsome,  distinguished  —  how  can  she  help  lov- 
ing him  ?" 

No  one  had  said  that  he  was  young  or  hand- 
some ;  but  Madame  Brenner  conceiv^ed  it  must 
be  so,  and  believed  it  accordingly. 

"Ah,  well,  well,"  continued  she,  "and  we  all 
thought  she  would  be  a  singer  at  one  time  !  How 
little  we  can  guess  what  a  few  months  may  bring 
forth !  I  have  told  Professor  Oberstein  of  his 
pupil's  good  fortune ;  and " 

"And  Professor  Metz  also;  have  you  not, 
Madame  ?" 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure ;  because  I  begged  him  to 
send  you  home  at  once ;  but  I  forbade  him  to  tell 
you  the  news,  because  I  wanted  to  have  that 
pleasure  myself  But,  dear  heart !  here  we  are 
standing  and  chattering,  while  there  is  such  a 
world  of  things  to  be  done,  and  no  time  to  do 
them !  I  have  already  sent  Gretchen  down  to 
the  laundry  with  all  the  things  that  want  getting 
up  ;  and  Ida  is  gone  into  the  town  to  buy  a  new 
ribbon  for  your  bonnet  —  for  you  could  never 
have  gone  to  Paris,  my  dear,  in  this  shabby  old 
hat !  —  and  Professor  Oberstein  has  kindly  offer- 
ed to  see  about  your  passport ;  and  I  have  sent 
down  to  Krauter,  the  carpenter,  to  come  and 
look  at  your  boxes  ;  for  it's  years  and  years  since 
you  came  among  us,  and  they've  been  lying  up 
in  the  lumber-rooms  ever  since,  and  are  almost 
tumbling  to  pieces  by  this  time,  I  shouldn't 
wonder !  But,  Barbara,  my  child,  I  thought  you 
would  have  been  more  pleased  to  hear  of  Hilda's 
betrothal  y" 

"  I  do  not  know,  Madame.     It  is  so  sudden  — 
I  hope  she  may  be  happy." 
■    "  How  can  she  help  being  happy  ?" 

I  shook  my  head,  sadly. 

"  Then,  are  you  not  yourself  delighted  to  visit 
Paris  ?" 

"  I  had  rather  stay  here,  dear  Madame  Bren- 


ner, a  thousand  times.  There  is  the  pavilion, 
you  know  —  I  Avas  so  proud  to  help  Professor 
Metz  in  the  paviUon.  And  then  Ida  —  how  sh6 
will  miss  me  !" 

"  How  we  shall  all  miss  you,  Liehchen  /"  said 
Madame,  tenderly.  "  I  don't  know  what  we  shall 
do  when  you're  gone." 

"  Oh,  but  I  shall  hurry  back  as  soon  as  the 
wedding  is  over." 

Madame  looked  incredulous. 

"  Paris  is  a  city  of  enchantment,"  said  she. 
"  You  may  like  it  too  well  to  leave  it ;  or  you, 
also,  may  find  a  husband.     Who  knows  ?" 

"  But  I  intend  never  to  marry !  I  have  re- 
solved to  devote  my  life  to  painting." 

"The  resolutions  of  seventeen  are  easily 
broken,"  replied  Madame,  smiling. 

"  You. forget  how  happy  I  am  here.  You  for- 
get that  the  College  is  my  home." 

"  I  forget  nothing,"  said  she;  "but  the  hours 
are  precious,  and  you  will  have  to  start  early  in 
the  morning.  Come  up-stairs,  my  child,  at  once, 
and  let  us  look  over  your  wardrobe." 

But  I  was  in  despair  that  she  should  believe 
it  possible  that  I  could  prefer  Paris  and  matri- 
mony to  Zollenstrasse  and  Art. 

"  You  are  mistaken,  Madame,"  I  repeated,  as  "» 
we  went  up  the  great  stone  staircase.     "  Indeed, 
indeed,  you  are  mistaken." 

To  which  she  only  replied  —  "  We  shall  see." 

We  worked  hard  all  the  rest  of  the  day  and 
far  into  the  evening,  trimming,  repairing,  and 
packing  my  little  outfit.  At  about  half-past 
eight  o'clock,  Hugh  came,  according  to  his  prom- 
ise, and  was  shown  into  Madame  Brenner's  par- 
lor, where  we  were  all  sitting  together,  still  busy 
with  our  needles. 

"  I  come  to  bid  Parbara  a  last  adieu,"  said  he ; 
"  for  we  are  very  olJ  friends,  as  you  know,  Ma- 
dame Brenner ;  and  do  not  like  parting." 

"  I  know  you  are,  Herr  Farquhar,"  replied 
Madame ;  "  but  you  are  not  more  sorry  than  we 
are,  for  all  that." 

"  Upon  my  word,  Madame,"  said  Hugh,  look- 
ing very  much  surprised,  and  bowing  politely, 
"  )'ou  are  too  good." 

"  The  place  will  not  seem  the  same  to  any  of 
us,"  continued  Madame,  with  the  tears  in  her 
kind  eyes.  '' 

"I  —  believe  me  I  really  do  not  know  how 
to " 

"  And  as  for  this  poor  Ida,"  said  Madame,  lay- 
ing her  own  plump  hand  aifectionately  on  Ida's 
slender  fingers,  "  she  will  nearly  break  her 
heart,  poor  child." 

Hugh  looked  from  one  face  to  another  in 
such  bewilderment  and  consternation,  that  I 
could  forbear  laughing  no  longer. 

"  And  all  because  poor  little  Barbara  is  sum- 
moned away  to  Paris  to  her  sister's  wedding !" 
I  exclaimed,  purposely  destroying  the  thread  of 
the  double  entendre.  "  You  did  not  know,  Mr. , 
Farquhar,  that  if  you  are  off  to-morrow  to  St. 
Petersburgh,  I  also  start  for  Paris." 

"  You — you  are  going  to  Paris  ?"  said  he, 
with  a  deep  breath  of  satisfaction.  "  This  is 
sudden,  is  it  not  ?" 

"  Yes,  Hugh,"  I  replied,  demurely.  "  All  my 
resolutions  are  sudden.  I  am  the  slave  of  a 
demon  whose  name  is  Whim.  Did  you  never 
hear  of  the  Piper  of  Hamelin  ?" 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


re 


"  The  Piper  of  Hamelin  !"  repeated  Madame 
Brenner.     "  Who  is  he,  pray  ?" 

"  Oh,  a  friend  of  the  Herr  Farquhar,  Madame. 
But,  indeed,  Hugh,  I  have  very  important  news 
from  Paris.  My  sister  Hilda  is  to  be  married 
in  ten  days  to  the  Count  de  Chaumont ;  and 
my  father" insists  that  I  shall  be  present  at  the 
ceremony." 

"  But  you  are  not  going  alone,  little  one  ?" 

« Indeed  I  am." 

"  It  is  very  unfortunate,"  said  Madame ;  "  but 
We  have  so  short  a  notice  that  it  is  impossible 
to  find  any  family  traveling  in  the  same  di- 
rection." 

"  I  am  about  to  leave  Zollenstrasse,"  said 
Hugh  ;  "  and  a  few  days  sooner  or  later  would 
make  no  difference  to  me.  I  shall  be  happy  to 
take  care  of  Barbara  as  far  as  Paris,  if  Madame 
pleases."  ^ 

The  superintendent  held  up  her  hands  in 
horror. 

"  Mein  Gott !  impossible,"  said  she.  "  Such 
a  thing  was  never  heard  of.  The  Herr  Farquhar 
is  a  foreigner,  and  probably  is  not  aware " 

"  Oh,  les  convenances,  I  suppose !"  replied  he, 
laughing.  "  Madame,  I  confess  to  you  frankly 
that  I  am  a  savage.  I  know  no  more  of  the  by- 
laws of  life  than  an  Esquimaux ;  and  if  I  con- 
ceived that,  having  known  Barbara  Churchill 
since  she  was  no  taller  than  my  cane,  I  might 
with  propriety  volunteer  to  protect  her  during 
so  short  a  journey,  blame,  if  you  please,  my 
ignorance  only.  Why,  petite,  you  have  never 
been  anywhere  -by  your  own  little  self,  ever 
since  you  were  born  !" 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  I  traveled  alone  to 
and  from  Suffolk,  when  I  was  a  very  little  girl," 
I  replied ;  "  and  Hilda  and  I  came  alone  from 
London  Bridge  to  these  College  gates,  six  years 
ago." 

"  And  how  do  you  propose  to  make  your  way/ 
to  Paris  ?" 

"  I  leave  Zollenstrasse  to-morrow  morning  by 
the  steamboat  that  goes  down  the  Main  as  far 
as  Frankfort.  At  Frankfort  I  am  to  sleep,  and 
thence  shall  go  on  by  diligence  and  railroad,  ac- 
cording to  the  plan  that  Madame  will  write  out 
for  me." 

"  Can  I  be  of  any  assistance  in  that  matter, 
Madame  V"  said  he.  "  I  know  every  route,  road, 
boat,  rail,  and  diligence  by  heart ;  and  every 
rood  of  the  ground  between  this  place  and 
Paris.  In  me,  without  vanity,  I  may  say  you 
behold  an  accomplished  courier,  a  steamboat 
directory,  a  hotel  guide,  a  fluent  vocabulary,-  a 
polyglot  interpreter,  a  circumstantial  handbook 
for  travelers  on  the  Continent ;  and,  in  short, 
all  that  the  most  inexperienced  tourist  can  de- 
sire in  a  work  of  reference." 

"Indeed  I  shall  be  very  grateful,"  replied 
Madame ;  "for  I  never  can  understand  these 
new-fashioned  ways  of  traveling.  Ten  years 
ago,  one  never  went  by  any  thing  but  schnell- 
wagens,  or  steamboats  ;  and  now  one  hears  of 
nothing  but  railroads  springing  up  in  every 
direction." 

So  Hugh  pulled  out  his  guide-book  and  time- 
tables, and  he  and  Madame  sat  down  quite 
cosily,  side  by  side,  and  planned  my  journey  for 
me.  I  was  to  go  by  boat  to  Frankfort ;  from 
Frankfort  by  diligence  to  Mayence  ;  from  May- 
ence  to  Cologne  by  steamboat ;  and  from  Co- 


logne by  railroad  to  Paris.  As  soon  as  all  this 
was  written  down,  with  the  fares  and  hours  of 
starting,  and  the  names  of  the  hotels  at  which  I 
was  to  stay,  Hugh  rose  and  took  his  leave. 

"  Good-by,  petite,''*  said  he,  quite  gayly. 
"When  I  am  tired  of  Russia,  I  shall  come 
back  to  Zollenstrasse  and  hear  all  about  Hilda's 
wedding,  and  the  visit  to  Paris.  What  shall  I 
bring  you  from  St.  Petersburgh  ?" 

"  Nothing,  thank  you." 

"  Nonsense — I  will  bring  you  a  set  of  sables  ; 
or,  if  you  like  it  better,  a  bracelet  of  gold 
roubles." 

"  What  do  I  want  with  bracelets  or  sables, 
Hugh  ?  Bring  yourself  back.  I  am  very  lonely 
here,  now  that  Hilda  is  gone." 

"  Ah,  Barbarina,  that  is  more  difficult !  Adieu, 
and  God  bless  you.  Adieu,  gracious  Madam.  I 
hope  some  day  to  have  the  pleasure  of  paying 
my  respects  to  you  again." 

And  with  this  he  went  away.  I  was  very  sad 
that  evening ;  and  I  felt  it  hard,  somehow,  that 
he  could  go  so  cheerfully. 


CHAPTER  XXVin. 

A  KIRMESS  AND   SCHUETZEN-FEST. 

It  is  almost  as  difficult  to  part  from  places 
that  we  love,  as  from  people  who  are  dear  to 
us.  I  scarcely  knew,  indeed,  w^hether  my  tears 
fell  faster  for  the  Academy,  or  for  the  friends 
whom  I  left  in  it.  Twenty  times  I  turned  back 
to  take  a  last  look  at  the  pretty  bedroom  which 
Ida  and  I  had  shared  so  long  between  us ;  at 
the  familiar  studio  in  which  I  had  worked  so 
happily;  at  the  half  finished  painting  Avhich  I 
was  leaving  on  the  easel.  To  one  I  said  :  "  Take 
care  of  my  mignonette,  and  water  it  for  me  every 
morning  before  breakfast."  To  another  :  "  Let 
no  one  take  my  seat  in  the  studio,  or  move  my 
easel  from  the  corner  it  always  occupies."  To 
me  there  was  something  significant  in  every 
petty  detail  of  the  localities  I  loved — something 
precious  in  the  very  patterns  of  the  furniture, 
in  the  weather-stains  upon  the  old  flags  in  the 
courtyard,  in  the  rough  chalk  outlines  scrawled 
here  and  there  on  the  walls  of  the  class-rooms. 

They  were  all  sorry  to  part  from  me,  and 
crowded  round  to  bid  me  a  thousand  last  good- 
bys.  Professor  Metz  came  out  from  his  private 
room  to  shake  hands  with  me  ;  Madame  Bren- 
ner accompanied  me  to  the  wharf;  and  Ida, 
and  two  or  three  others  who  had  not  gone 
home  for  the  vacation,  went  down  to  the  bridge 
to  see  me  off*.  To  every  one  I  kept  repeating : 
"  I  shall  be  back  soon !  I  am  sure  to  be  back, 
at  the  latest,  in  a  month,  or  five  weeks."  But 
my  heart  failed  me  all  the  time ;  and  the  more 
I  strove  to  console  others,  the  more  inconsola- 
ble I  became.  At  length  the  bell  rang,  and 
Madame  left  me,  with  many  embraces ;  and  the 
steamer  hove  slowly  round,  and  carried  me 
away.  My  school-friends  on  the  bridge  waved 
their  handkerchief^.  Madame  Brenner  put  hers 
to  her  eyes,  and  turned  away ;  and  Ida's  pale, 
tearless  face  grew  less  and  less  distinct,  till  the 
bend  of  the  river  carried  us  out  of  sight,  and 
the  last  spire  of  Zollenstrasse  disappeared  be- 
hind the  woods  of  Briihl. 

The  morning  was  dull  and  chilly.     The  decks 


80 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


were  still  damp  from  recent  swabbing.  The 
passengers  were  few,  and  the  scenery  looked 
ghostly  through  the  white  fog  hanging  low 
upon  the  banks.  Whenever  we  came  to  a  lit- 
tle river -side  village,  which  happened  about 
four  or  five  times  in  every  hour,  the  bell  rang, 
and  the  steamer  lay  to  for  the  purpose  of  re- 
ceiving and  landing  passengers.  These  Avere 
chiefly  market-women  and  washer-women,  who 
piled  their  picturesque  baskets  in  the  middle  of 
the  deck,  and  sat  knitting  and  chattering  to- 
gether as  long  as  they  remained  on  board. 
Some  brought  crates  of  live  poultry ;  some, 
glittering  brass  milk- cans,  slender  and  graceful 
as  antique  vases  ;  and  one  was  accompanied  by 
a  very  noisy  and  disobliging  pig,  who  protested 
loudly  against  the  manner  of  transit,  and  was 
landed  by  force  at  a  squalid  little  hamlet  about 
eight  miles  down  the  river.  By  and  by,  shortly 
after  mid-day,  we  arrived  at  an  ancient  walled 
town  standing  on  a  granite  cliff  high  above  the 
Stream,  with,  a  line  of  quaint  watch-towers 
reaching  down  to  the  water's  edge.  Here  we 
stopped,  as  usual,  and  took  in  some  soldiers,  a 
few  peasants,  and  a  pair  of  splendid  horses, 
covered  with  horse-cloths  from  their  ears  to 
their  fetlocks.  Sad  and  weary  as  I  was  (for  the 
four  hours  that  I  had  already  been  on  board 
seemed  like  sixteen)  I  saw,  but  scarcely  heeded, 
these  fresh  arrivals.  What,  then,  was  my  amaze- 
ment, when  a  gentleman  came  and  flung  him- 
self familiarly  on  the  bench  beside  me,  and 
said — 

"  Shall  we  go  down  together  to  the  cabin,  and 
have  some  lunch,  Fraulein  ?" 

Without  even  turning  my  head  to  look  at 
him,  I  rose  indignantly,  and  was  about  tq  move 
away,  when  he  seized  me  by  the  wrist,  and  add- 
ed— 

"Barbarina!" 

"  What,  Hugh  ?" 

"  Of  course.    Who  else  ?" 

"  But— but  how " 

"  How  came  I  here  ?  Well,  by  a  post-chaise, 
if  I  am  bound  to  render  up  an  account  of  my 
proceedings.  I  sent  my  horses  to  this  place  last 
night — it  is  only  fourteen  miles  by  the  road — 
and  followed  them  this  morning,  just  in  time  to 
catch  the  boat,  and  place  myself  at  your  High- 
ness's  service.  I  had  no  mind  that  my  little 
Barbarina  should  travel  to  Paris  alone." 

"  Oh,  Hugh,  how  good  of  you — how  wrong  of 
you !  What  would  Madame  say  if  she  knew 
it?" 

"What  she  pleased,  carina.  I  have  a  right 
to  travel  when  and  where  I  choose.  Would  you 
like  to  come  and  look  at  the  horses  ?" 

Of  course  I  liked  to  look  at  the  horses.  I 
should  have  liked  to  look  at  a  pair  of  basilisks, 
by  his  invitation.  I  knew  nothing  about  horses ; 
but  that  was  of  no  consequence.  I  admired 
them  because  they  were  his ;  and  a  smart  Eng- 
lish groom,  whose  top-boots  were  the  wonder  of 
all  the  German  rustics  on  board,  stepped  for- 
ward and  unbuckled  the  horse-cloths  for  my 
especial  satisfaction.  This  done,  we  went  into 
the  cabin  and  had  sour  claret  and  tough  cutlets 
for  lunch ;  by  which  time  the  fog  had  cleared 
away,  and  the  sun  was  shining,  and  it  became 
quite  a  pleasant  thing  to  go  on  deck  again,  and 
enjoy  the  scenery. 

All  that  day,  Hugh  exerted  himself  to  keep 


me  amused  and  cheerful.  He  pointed  out 
every  picturesque  effect,  every  ruin,  boat,  and 
incident  on  the  way.  For  me  he  ransacked  the 
store-houses  of  his  memory;  for  me  raked  up 
every  dry  and  dusty  legend  of  the  Franconian 
land — legends  of  the  Fichtelgebirge,  and  the 
magical  mountain  filled  with  halls  of  gold  and 
jewels ;  and  the  story  of  Conrad  the  devil ;  and 
the  history  of  the  Empress  Cunigunda,  whose 
petticoat  is  kept  to  this  day  in  the  Cathedral  of 
Bamberg,  as  a  cure  for  the  toothache. 

Besides  all  this,  I  found  myself  traveling  en 
princesse,  and  surrounded  with  unaccustomed 
luxury.  At  Frankfort,  where  we  stopped  for 
the  night,  Tippoo  suddenly  made  his  appearance, 
and,  after  his  old  noiseless  fashion,  took  the 
charge  and  conduct  of  every  thing.  He  seemed 
neither  to  see  nor  recognize  me;  but,  having 
quietly  searched  out  our  luggage,  and  delivered 
over  the  groom  and  horses  to  an  ostler  who  was 
waiting  on  the  quay,  preceded  us  to  a  spacious 
hotel,  where  we  were  received  by  a  crowd 
of  bowing  waiters,  and  ushered  into  a  pleasant 
parlor  opening  upon  a  garden,  at  the  foot  of 
which  flowed  the  river  Main.  Here  the  table 
was  ready  laid  with  glittering  glass  and  silver, 
and  flowers  that  filled  the  air  with  fragrance. 

"  What  a  charming  room !"  I  exclaimed. 

But  Hugh  flung  his  hat  impatiently  upon  a 
sofa,  and  said : — 

"  How  is  this,  Tippoo  ?  Did  I  not  tell  you 
the  pavilion  ?" 

"Sahib,  the  pavilion  is  engaged." 

'■'■  Mille  diahles!  Remembef,  then,  that  to- 
morrow I  have  the  Oreen  Drawing-Room  over- 
looking the  river." 

"Yes,  Sahib." 

"You  see,  Barbara,"  explained  Hugh,  "I 
have  my  favorite  apartments,  wherever  I  go ; 
and  it  is  Tippoo's  duty  to  secure  them.  I  have 
also  my  own  especial  taste  in  the  matter  of 
cuisine.  I  can  not  eat  these  innocuous  European 
dishes.  I  must  have  my  Indian  spices,  and,  like 
Sir  Epicure  Mammon,  bargain  for  '  the  tongues 
of  carp,  dormice,  and.  camels'  heels : ' — so  Tip- 
poo always  travels  in  advance,  and  prepares 
both  the  rooms  and  the  dinner.  Nay,  never 
look  so  dismayed,  little  one !  For  you  I  have 
provided 

Syllabubs,  and  jellies,  and  mince-pies, 
And  other  such  lady-like  luxuries.' 

I  have  no  mind  to  starve  you  between  this  and 
Paris." 

-*' And  where  is  this  green-parlor  of  which  you 
spoke  just  now  ?" 

"  At  Coblentz,  where  we  break  our  journey 
again  to-morrow  evening.  But  will  you  not  go 
to  your  room  now;  for  we  are  already  some- 
what after  the  time  at  which  I  ordered  dinner  ?" 

So  I  hastened  to  take  off  my  bonnet,  and 
make  such  scanty  toilette  as  I  could  ;  and  then 
came  back  to  the  pretty  parlor,  where  we  dined 
in  great  state,  with  Tippoo  standing  behind  his 
master's  chair,  and  two  waiters  in  attendance. 
Despite  this  grandeur,  the  dinner  passed  off 
merrily,  thanks  to  my  companion's  inexhausti- 
ble gayety.  After  the  cloth  was  removed,  we 
strolled  for  an  hour  through  the  old  dusky 
streets  in  the  summer  twilight,  and  saw  the 
Cathedral,  and  the  house  where  Goethe  was 
born,  and   the   Ober-Main  Thor,  and  the  gilt 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


81 


weather-cock  at  which  the  child-poet  loved  to 
gaze  in  the  sunshine.  Then,  when  it  grew  quite 
dark,  we  came  back  to  our  hotel;  and  coffee 
was  served;  and  Tippoo  produced  the  never- 
failing  hookah,  and  the  spirit-lamp  in  its  stand 
of  frosted-silver.  So  I  bade  good-night,  and 
left  Hugh  to  enjoy  his  pipe  and  his  book. 

The  next  morning  we  were  breakfasting  be- 
fore six ;  for  the  railway  at  that  time  was  only 
just  commenced  between  Frankfort  and  Mann- 
heim, and  we  had  a  long  day's  work  before  us. 
Instead  of  the  weary  schnell-wagen,  a  smart 
open  carriage  and  four  post-horses,  with  bells 
upon  their  collars,  and  red-worsted  tassels  and 
rosettes  upon  their  heads,  waited  at  the  hotel- 
door  to  convey  us  on  our  journey.  The  land- 
lord and  waiters  bowed  us  out,  calling  Hugh 
"  my  lord,"  and  me  "  my  lady  ;"  the  little  boys 
set  up  a  feeble  cheer  as  we  stepped  in  and  drove 
away ;  and  I  remember  feeling  quite  sorpy  that 
tlie  good  people  of  Frankfort  were  not  up  and 
stirring,  to  witness  the  grandeur  of  our  de- 
parture. 

It  was  a  glorious  summer  day,  and  we  had 
nothing  to  do  but  to  enjoy  it  to  the  music  of  the 
horses'  bells,  and  the  singing  of  the  birds.  We 
had  it  all  to  ourselves.  Tippoo,  as  usual,  had 
gone  on  before  ;  the  groom  and  horses  were  left 
behind,  to  follow  by  easy  stages;  and  if  a  re- 
morseful thought  of  Madame  Brenner  did  now 
and  then  cross  my  mind,  I  banished  it  as  quick- 
ly as  possible.  About  every  two  German  miles 
we  changed  horses ;  and  at  eleven  in  the  fore- 
noon reached  a  quaint  little  town  where  there 
was  a  Kirmess^  or  fair,  and  a  shooting  festival 
going  forward.  Here  our  arrival  created  an  ex- 
ta-aordinary  excitement ;  for  the  streets  were  full 
of  rustics,  to  whom  the  sight  of  a  traveling- 
carriage  with  four  horses  and  two  postillions  was 
an  event  of  some  magnitude.  The  market- 
place and  chief  thoroughfare  were  lined  with 
booths  ;  the  eating-houses  were  full  of  custom- 
ers ;  the  free-shooters,  in  their  gray  and  green 
coats  and  steeple-crowned  hats,  were  standing  in 
knots  at  the  doors  of  the  wine-shops ;  the  bare- 
headed, broad-shouldered  peasant-girls  were 
crowding,  gossiping,  and  eating  gingerbread  in 
tlie  broiling  sunshine;  and  the  air  was  all  alive 
with  laughter,  music,  shouting,  shooting,  and 
the  creaking  of  merry-go-rounds.  Having  with 
difficulty  procured  a  disengaged  parlor,  we  stop- 
ped at  the  principal  inn  to  take  lunch,  and 
while  it  was  being  prepared,  went  out  to  see 
something  of  the  fair. 

It  was  a  thorough  German  Volks-Fest,  and  the 
booths  were  stocked  with  thorough  German 
wares.  Here  was  a  stall  for  combs,  probably 
made  at  Heidelberg,  and  beside  it  a  fantastic 
little  temple  piled  high  with  compact  brown  bun- 
dles of  "  Brennen  Cigarren."  Beyond  these 
again,  came  stalls  for  the  sale  of  untanned  leath- 
er, soft  and  velvety,  with  a  curly  surface,  like 
brown  tripe — stalls  for  mock  jewelry  and  bead 
necklaces,  dear  to  German  Madchens — stalls  full 
of  Tyrolean  knapsacks,  faced  with  goatskin  and 
ornamented  with  fi-inges  of  knotted  twine — stalls 
of  Nuremberg  toys ;  beer-jugs  gray  and  blue, 
with  hieroglyphic  patterns ;  tin  oil  lamps,  pre- 
serving something  of  the  antique  Roman  shape  ; 
Bavarian  glass;  umbrellas,  chiefly  of  colored 
chintz  and  scarlet  gingham ;  gorgeous  ginger- 
bread ;  brooms  ;  brushes ;  spectacles ;  clocks ; 
F 


cutlery  ;  Lutheran  hymn-books  and  Roman  Cath- 
olic missals  ;  stationery ;  china ;  silver  hair-ar- 
rows ;  pumpernickel ;  cravats ;  and  wooden  shoes. 
One  stall  was  exclusively  devoted  to  the  sale  of 
mouse-traps.  But  foremost  in  attraction,  and 
most  characteristic  of  all,  were  the  pipe-stalls. 
Here  were  carved  wooden  pipes  ;  great  porcelain 
pipes  with  colored  pictures  of  huntsmen  and 
maidens  on  the  bowls ;  pipes  with  metal  stop- 
pers, and  little  German  silver  chains ;  pipes  with- 
out stoppers  ;  pipes  of  cherrywood,  clay,  meer- 
schaum, red  earth ;  pipes  with  twisted  stems,  elas- 
tic stems,  short  stems,  long  stems ;  comic  pipes 
with  queer  faces  on  the  bowls  ;  solemn  pipes,  like 
grinning  death's  heads ;  portly  aldermanic  pipes ; 
slender,  genteel  ones — in  short,  pipes  of  all 
shapes  and  complexions,  sizes,  prices,  and  colors. 
The  love  of  the  German  for  his  pipe  is  almost  a 
sentiment;  and  he  puts  into  the  pattern  and 
painting  of  it  such  small  change  of  fancy,  hu- 
mor, and  poetry,  as  passes  current  with  the  hon- 
est Gottliebs  and  Heinrichs  of  every-day  life. 

Mingling  still  with  the  noisy  crowd,  Hugh  and 
I  passed  through  these  long  avenues  of  stalls  till 
we  came  to  the  old  medieval  town-gate.  Be- 
yond this  lay  a  meadow,  part  of  which  was  par- 
titioned off  for  the  shooting  ground,  while  the 
rest  was  filled  with  booths  of  a  larger  size  than 
those  within  the  walls.  Here  were  tents  with 
the  words  "  Tanz  Micsik''^  painted  up  conspicu- 
ously over  the  entrance ;  in  each  of  which  we 
saw  some  twenty  or  thirty  stalwart  couples  whirl- 
ing and  stamping  about  as  merrily  as  if  the  mid- 
day sun  were  not  shining  down  with  almost  trop- 
ical splendor.  Here,  too,  were  Punch  and  Judy 
shows,  where  the  showman  appeared  on  the 
stage  in  person,  as  far  as  his  head  and  shoulders, 
and  exchanged  thumps  with  his  quarrelsome 
hero — peep-shows  containing  views  of  London, 
Paris,  and  the  Rhine — maneges^  in  which  grown- 
up folks  were  going  gravely  round — and  the 
great  "Puppet-theater  from  Vienna,"  recom- 
mended to  public  admiration  by  a  huge  external 
fresco  representing  two  gentlemen  in  Paul  Pry 
costume  with  labels  issuing  from  their  mouths, 
on  one  of  which  was  inscribed,  "  I  have  been  in 
to  see  it,  and  it  is  splendid !"  To  which  the 
other  replies,  "  I  would  go  ;  but  I  haven't  a 
groschen !" 

Beyond  the  shows  lay  the  refreshment  booths  ; 
ambitious  edifices  of  planks  and  canvas,  sur- 
mounted by  flags,  and  disclosing  vistas  of  tables 
and  benches  occupied  by  jovial  holiday  folks, 
feasting  on  German  sausages,  black  bread,  Swiss 
cheese,  and  flagons  of  thin  Rhenish  or  sparkling 
Bai'erisch.  These  booths  bore  all  kinds  of  high- 
sounding  titles,  such  as  Bavarian  Beer-Ualls, 
Jiiger's  Refreshment  Halls,  Free-shooters'  eat- 
ing-rooms, Kirmess  Gasthofs,  and  the  like  ; 
whilst  in  their  neighborhood  hovered  profes- 
sional touters  who  filled  our  hands  with  printed 
advertisements  and  our  ears  with  vociferate 
praises  of  the  establishments  to  which  they  were 
severally  attached. 

"  Try  Mollberg's  *  Temple  of  Cookery,'  gra- 
cious Excellency  !"  cries  one  Jewish -looking  fel- 
low with  gold  rings  in  his  ears.  "  Venison,  no- 
del  soup,  grape-cakes,  and  the  best  Lager-bier 
in  the  world,  for  thirty-six  kreutzers  per  head  !" 

"  Come  to  Schwindt's  Restauration,  Herr 
Graf!"  shouts  another.  "The  best  hotel  ia 
Frankfort  couldn't  serve  you  better  I" 


82 


BARBARA'S   HISTORY. 


"  Read  this,  gncidlges  Frdulein^''  says  a  third, 
thrusting  a  slip  of  paper  into  my  hand.  "  Read 
this,  and  persuade  the  Herr  Excellency  to  bring 
you  to  the  '  Hunter's  Delight.'  " 

The  slip  of  paper  proves  to  be  an  advertise- 
ment in  doggerel  rhyme,  over  which  Hugh  and  I 
have  a  hearty  laugh  together ;  and  which,  roughly 
translated,  would  run  as  follows  :— 

Esser's  Kirmess  Restacuakt. 

"  Tlie  IIunter''8  DelighV 

Come,  neighbors,  'tis  our  yearly  fair ; 
Let  all  to  Esser's  booth  repair  ! 
There  every  friend  and  honored  guest 
May  freely  feast  upon  the  best. 
Cutlets,  and  sucking  pigs,  and  veal, 
Hams,  jellies,  capons,  ducks,  and  teal, 
Plums,  peaches,  melons,  figs,  and  pease, 
All  kinds  of  sausages  and  cheese. 
Anchovies,  sardines,  oysters,  steaks, 
And  (for  the  women)  sweets  and  cakes ; 
All  these,  and  more  (if  you've  the  mind) 
At  Esser's  eating-rooms  you'll  find. 
As  for  my  stock  of  wine  and  beer, 
I  can  not  dwell  upon  it  here  ; 
Enough  that  there  will  be,  as  well. 
An  extra  cask  of  prime  Moselle  ; 
So  good  that  it  would  be  a  shame 
If  but  a  single  schoppen  came 
To  palates  dulled  by  beer  and  spirits, 
And,  therefore,  tasteless  to  its  merits. 

So  come,  my  friends,  and  try  my  fiimous  cheer : 

A  bottle  and  a  capon,  who  need  fear  ? 

Remember,  Kirmess  comes  but  once  a  year ! 

Resisting  the  attractions  held  out  by  these 
beery  and  smoky  temples  of  festivity,  we  crossed 
to  the  free-shooters'  ground,  where  some  eighty 
riflemen  were  gathered  together  at  the  lower 
end  of  the  field  ;  each  man  with  his  gun  in  his 
hand,  and  all  wearing  the  characteristic  hat  and 
coat  of  the  brotherhood.  At  the  upper  end  of 
the  inclosure  stood  three  large  targets.  In  a 
small  tent  close  by  were  ranged  the  prizes  to  be 
shot  for.  In  a  large  booth  against  the  place  of 
entrance,  a  young  woman  dispensed  wine  and 
beer,  and  an  old  man  collected  the  shooting-fees. 
These  were  about  twopence  each  for  entrance, 
and  a  penny  for  every  shot. 

"  Stand  aside,  meine  Herren^""  cried  the  old 
money-taker,  as  we  passed  the  wicket,  and  came 
in.  "  Stand  aside,  and  let  His  Excellency  have 
a  shot!" 

But  Hugh  laughed,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  I  have  no  gun,  friend,"  said  he. 

"  Eh,  mein  Gott,  Excellency,  here  are  guns  in 
plenty.     See — one,  two,  three,  foui',  five,  six  !" 

And  the  old  man  pointed  to  a  row  of  well- 
used  rifles  ranged  on  a  stand  behind  his  counter. 

"  The  Herr  Excellency  is  welcome  to  mine," 
said  a  handsome  free-shooter,  standing  close  by. 

Something  in  the  man's  tone,  perfectly  civil 
though  it  was,  brought  the  angry  color  to  my 
cheeks. 

"  Take  it,  Hugh ;  take  it,"  I  whispered. 
"These  men  think  you  can  not  shoot." 

"  And  what  matter  if  they  do,  carina  ?  They 
are  the  best  rifle-shots  in  the  world,  except  the 
Tyroleans  ;  and  they  know  it." 

"  But  you  are  quite  as  fine  a  marksman  as  any 
Tyrolean  in  Tyrol." 

"  I  am  a  very  fair  marksman,"  replied  Hugh  ; 
"but " 

"  But  they  do  not  believe  it !  See,  they  are 
smiling.     Do  —  do  take  the  man's  rifle." 

He  laughed,  and  took  it. 

"  The  young  lady  wishes  it,"  said  he  ;.  "  so  I 
accept  your  offer,  friend,  with  thanks.    A  heavy 


gun  to  carry  on  a  long  day's  shooting,  upon  my 
word !" 

"  We  mountaineers  think  nothing  of  heavier 
rifles  than  this,"  said  the  free-shooter,  with  a 
slight  curl  of  his  handsome  lip.  "  I  come  from 
the  Black  Forest ;  and  I  carry  that  gun  on  ray 
shoulder  all  day,  where  the  mountains  are  steep- 
est. Take  care,  Excellency.  When  cocked,  a 
breath  is  almost  enough  to  free  the  trigger." 

But  Hugh,  balancing  the  rifle  in  his  hand, 
seemed  scarcely  to  hear  the  warning. 

"  What  is  the  distance  of  your  farthest  tar- 
get ?"  asked  he.     "  Three  hundred  paces  ?" 

"  Two  hundred  and  fifty,  Excellency,"  replied 
the  old  man  at  the  counter. 

Hugh  lifted  the  rifle  to  his  shoulder  and  fired, 
almost  without  seeming  to  take  aim. 

"  Stop  !"  shouted  he,  as  some  half-dozen  free- 
shooters  .  began  running  toward  the  target. 
"  Stop  !  Another  shot  first !  Will  any  one  lend 
me  another  rifle  ?" 

One  of  the  recalled  runners  handed  his  own 
immediately. 

Hugh  fired  again. 

"Now,"  said  he  carelessly,  "find  the  two 
balls." 

The  target  was  presently  surrounded.  There 
was  a  moment  of  silence ;  then  a  shout ;  then  a 
sudden  waving  of  caps,  and  a  general  rush  to- 
ward the  further  end  of  the  field. 

"  What  havejou  done,  Hugh  ?"  cried  I,  scarce- 
ly able  to  forbear  following  the  example  of  the 
rest.     "  What  have  you  done  ?" 

"  Fired  the  second  ball  precisely  upon  the  first, 
if  I  am  not  strangely  mistaken,"  answered  he.  "  I 
could  have  done  the  same  thing  at  nearly  double 
the  distance.  Why,  you  excitable  little  monkey, 
you  are  quivering  from  head  to  foot !  Surely  the 
firing  does  not  frighten  you  ?" 

"Frighten  me!  Do  you  suppose  I  tremble 
from  terror  ?  But  this  must  be  a  wonderful 
feat  ?" 

"  They  seem  to  think  so." 

"  How  glad  I  am  you  fired  !" 

"  So  am  I,  Barbarina,  since  it  has  given  you 
pleasure ;  but  I  did  not  desire  to  do  so.  There 
is  something  '  snobbish '  in  exhibitions  of  skill, 
merely  as  exhibitions." 

By  this  time  the  men  had  thronged  back  again, 
and  were  pressing  round  us  ;  all  eager  to  shake 
hands  with  Hugh  at  the  same  moment. 

"  We  never  saw  such  a  shot." 

"The  Ilerr  Excellency  is  Tell  come  back 
again  !" 

'*  Wunderbar  P^ 

"  Unerhort  r 

And  the  bullets,  completely  socketed  the  one 
in  the  other,  were  passed  from  hand  to  hand 
among  the  crowd. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  young  woman  at  the 
counter  had  fetched  a  heavy  earthenware  drink- 
ing Krug  with  a  still  heavier  German-silver  lid, 
representing  a  free-shooter  sitting  astride  on  a 
beer-barrel,  and  presented  it  to  Hugh  with  much 
ceremony. 

"  What  am  I  to  do  with  this,  meinFriiulein?" 
asked  he,  gallantly.     "  Shall  I  drink  your  health    m 
in  it  ?"  f 

"  It  is  the  first  prize.  Excellency,"  replied  the 
young  woman  with  a  courtesy, 

"  Nay,  nay,  I  do  not  wish  for  a  prize !" 

"  But  his  Excellency  has  won  it." 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


83 


"  Yes  !  Yes  !  Fairly  Avon  it !  Take  it !  Take 
it !"  was  echoed  on  every  side. 

"  I  had  rather  leave  it  still  to  be  shot  for,"  said 
Hugh  ;  "  but  I  will  gladly  drink  a  health  out  of 
it,  to  my  friends  the  German  free-shooters.  They, 
in  return,  must,  however,  allow  me  to  offer  them 
some  of  the  Friiulein's  best  Lager-bier.  Friiu- 
lein,  have  you  enough  of  the  best  to  furnish  all 
these  Herren  with  two  ScJioppen  each  ?" 

"  With  three,  if  the  Herr  Excellency  pleases," 
replied  the  young  woman,  briskly. 

"  Then  three  let  it  be.  Gentlemen,  to  your 
health  and  success." 

Saying  which,  Hugh  Farquhar  drained  a  mea- 
sure in  their  honor  ;  returned  the  cup  to  the 
Miidchen  with  a  broad  gold-piece  lying  at  the 
bottom  ;  shook  hands  once  more  with  the  hon- 
est riflemen  all  roimd ;  and,  giving  mg  his  arm, 
hastened  away  from  the  meadow  and  thg  fair, 
and  round  by  a  pretty  field-path  to  the  gate  by 
which  we  had  first  entered  the  ton'n.  Long  be- 
fore we  left  it,  which  was  in  less  than  an  hour 
from  the  time  we  regained  our  inn,  the  fame  of 
Hugh's  achievement  had  flown  all  over  the  place ; 
so  that  there  was  quite  a  crowd  about  the  door 
when  we  drove  away.  Their  last  shout  rings  in 
my  ears  to  this  moment.  I  never  was  so  proud 
and  happy  before  ;  indeed,  I  doubt  whether,  at 
any  period  of  my  life,  I  have  been  so  proud  and 
so  happy  at  the  same  instant  of  time.  It  was 
one  of  those  rare  and  transient  gleams  of  pure, 
unalloyed,  unselfish,  perfect  pleasure  that  glance 
now  and  then,  like  mysterious  etoiles  JUantes^ 
across  the  dark  horizon  of  our  lives. 

That  afternoon,  we  took  the  Rhine  steamer  at 
Mayence,  and  went  with  the  rapid  river  as  far  as 
Coblentz,  where  we  had  the  green-room  with  the 
balcony  overlooking  the  river,  just  as  Hugh  had 
directed.  Here  we  found  the  table  laid,  and  the 
dinner  ready ;  and  after  dinner,  being  too  tired  to 
stroll  about  as  we  had  done  the  night  before,  we 
sat  outside,  and  watched  the  late  steamers  com- 
ing in  ;  and  the  people  going  to  and  fro  across 
the  bridge  of  boats  ;  and  the  lights  along  the 
banks  coming  out  brighter  and  brighter  as  the 
twilight  crept  up  from  the  west,  and  the  stars 
stole  out  overhead.  Then  coffee  was  brought ; 
and,  after  coffee,  the  spirit-lamp  and  the  hookah ; 
but  Hugh  laid  the  pipe  aside,  and  said  — 

"  Stay  a  little  longer,  Barbarina.  By  this  time 
to-morrow  we  shall  be  in  Paris  ;  and  then,  who 
knows  when  we  shall  meet  again  ?" 

So  I  sat  down  again,  and  he  talked  to  me. 
Such  talk  !  At  that  time,  though  tolerably  well 
read  in  German  literature,  I  was  but  slightly  ac- 
quainted with  any,  except  Shakspeare,  among 
our  English  poets.  Of  Coleridge,  I  knew  only 
that  he  was  the  author  of  "  The  Ancient  Mar- 
iner," and  a  brother-in-law  of  Robert  Southey. 
Had  I  then  read  any  of  those  written  testimonies 
in  which  his  friends  and  hearers  bear  witness  to 
the  wonders  of  his  eloquence  —  that  eloquence 
which  was  reported  to  "  marshal  all  history,  har- 
monize all  experiment,  and  probe  the  depths  of 
all  consciousness  "  — I  might  perhaps  have  been 
able  to  measure  Hugh  Farquhar's  conversation 
))y  something  of  an  ideal  standard.  As  it  was, 
I  lost  myself  in  listening ;  and  he  went  on  from 
topic  to  topic,  from  speculation  to  speculation, 
like  an  inspired  dreamer. 

I  can  recall  only  fragments  of  what  he  said 
—  mere  waifs  and  strays  of  splendid  reasoning 
and  gorgeous  metaphor.     To  put  them  into  any 


thing  like  an  intelligible  form  would,  at  this  dis- 
tance of  time,  be  altogether  impossible.  He  be- 
gan, I  think,  iDy  some  observation  on  the  night- 
landscape  before  our  windows,  and  thence  diverg- 
ed into  Shakspeare'a  sonnets,  Goethe's  Theory  of 
Plants,  the  influence  of  poetry,  the  Arcadia  of 
Sir  Philip  Sidney,  and  the  Utopia  of  Sir  Thomas 
More.  Hence  he  plunged  into  a  strange  theory 
of  the  fundamental  unity  of  the  arts,  and  related 
some  wild  adventure  of  his  own  in  the  depths 
of  a  South-American  forest,  where  he  chanced 
one  days  upon  the  ruin  of  a  primeval  temple, 
and  found,  yet  standing  erect  above  its  portals, 
a  sculptured  figure  with  uplifted  arm  and  broken 
bough;  rude,  imperfect,  but  embodying  the 
identical  conception  of  the  Belvedere  Apollo. 

Supposing,  even,  that  I  could'  remember  his 
very  words,  reconstruct  his  very  sentences,  how 
should  I  then  express  the  power  and  variety  of 
his  style  ?  It  was  like  the  flowing  of  a  royal 
river  ;  now  broad  and  strong  —  now  narrow,  and 
wild,  and  eager  —  now  bearing  the  sunlight  along 
with  it  like  a  freight  of  jewels  —  now  gliding 
subtly  through  the  shadow  —  now  winding  round 
some  sweet  green  isle  of  fancy  —  and  anon 
breaking  forth  into  foam,  and  hurrying  on,  on, 
till  it  leaps  over  the  rocks  with  a  mighty  voice 
of  triumph. 

But  to  describe  all  this,  "  one  should  write 
like  a  god." 

When,  at  length,  he  came  to  a  pause,  and  saw 
how  earnestly  I  was  listening,  he  smiled  sadly, 
rose  from  his  chair,  and  began  pacing  to  and  fro, 
as  was  his  wont,  when  moved  by  strong  excite- 
ment. 

"Barbara,"  said  he,  "to-night  my  thoughts 
run  away  with  me,  and  I,  like  a  foolish  Phaeton, 
can  not  hold  them  in.     Do  I  weary  you  ?" 

"  You  can  not  weary  me,"  I  replied.  "  Even 
when  I  was  a  child,  and  less  able  to  understand 
you,  I  used  to  think  that  I  could  gp  on  listening 
to  you  forever." 

"  And  do  you  understand  me  now  ?" 

"  Yes — in  a  certain  sense." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  '  a  certain  sense '  ?" 

"  I  mean  that  even  when  your  ideas  are  too 
deep,  or  too  high,  for  my  following,  I  always 
feel  their  beauty  ;  as  I  might  feel  the  melody  of 
a  language  that  I  had  never  heard  before." 

Suddenly,  before  I  could  guess  what  he  was 
about  to  do,  he  clasped  me  in  his  arms,  and 
kissed  me  twice  or  thrice  upon  the  eyes  and 
forehead — kissed  me  so  wildly,  so  passionately, 
so  strangely,  that  I  could  neither  speak  nor 
move,  nor  be  any  thing  but  passively  and  trem- 
blingly amazed.  Then,  releasing  me  as  sud- 
denly— 

"  Child  !  child  !"  he  exclaimed,  "  forgive  me  ! 
I  am  not  myself  to-night.  Leave  me.  Go  to 
bed  —  forget  this  folly.  Pshaw !  I  am  old 
enough  to  be  your  father.  There — shake  hands. 
I  am  not  going  to  kiss  you  again.     Good-night." 

Without  a  word,  I  left  him  and  went  to  my 
room.  I  felt  strange  and  bewildered,  as  if  I 
were  walking  in  my  sleep ;  and  my  heart  beat 
painfully.  To  shed  tears  might  have  been  a 
relief;  but  no  tears  came — so  I  sat,  half  un- 
dressed, upon  the  bed,  with  ray  face  buried  in 
my  hands,  and  the  moonlight  streaming  in 
through  the  uncurtained  casement.  By  and  by, 
my  eyes  grew  heavy  and  my  thoughts  more 
vague,  till  at  last  I  was  fain  to  lay  my  tired 
head  upon  the  pillow,  and  fall  fast  asleep.       «• 


84 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

PARTING    AND    MEETING. 

We  met  the  next  morning,  and  resumed  our 
journey,  as  if  nothing  had  taken  place.  Finding 
that  Hugh  in  nowise  alluded  to  the  events  of 
the  previous  evening,  I  gradually  recovered  my 
self-possession,  and  came  to  look  upon  them  as 
the  results  of  a  fantastic  ebullition — a  freak — a 
suggestion  of  the  Goblin  Whim  ;  and  so  ceased 
to  puzzle  myself  about  the  matter. 

Still,  things  were  not  quite  the  same  with  us. 
I  observed  that  he  was  more  grave  and  silent 
than  heretofore,  and  that  he  frequently  roused 
himself  to  talk  on  subjects  from  which  his 
thoughts  were,  far  distant.  Thus  a  shade  of 
restraint  interposed  between  us,  and  our  third 
day's  journey  seemed  ten  times  longer  than 
either  of  those  by  which  it  was  preceded. 

We  left  Coblentz  very  early  in  the  morning, 
while  the  mists  were  yet  hanging  about  the 
armed  bights  of  Ehrenbreitstein,  and,  landing 
at  Bonn,  thence  took  the  railway  to  Paris.  I 
had  never  traveled  by  railway  before  !  My 
journey  to  Zollenstrasse  had  been  accomplished 
nearlyall  the  way  by  water ;  and  most  of  the 
great  Continental  and  English  lines  had  sprung 
into  existence  during  the  time  of  my  quiet 
academic  life.  I  remember  that  I  was  very 
much  impressed  by  the  speed,  and  smoothness, 
and  mysterious  strength  of  this  new  power.  I 
was  even  somewhat  nervous,  though  I  would  not 
confess  it ;  and  felt  that  it  was  a  great  additional 
security  to  have  Hugh  Farquhar  sitting  by  my 
side. 

It  was  a  weary  journey,  and  we  did  not  come 
iu  sight  of  Paris  till  past  ten  o'clock  in  the 
evening.  AH  the  afternoon,  while  it  was  yet 
day,  I  had  been  wondering  when  these  mono- 
tonous corn-flats  and  lines  of  melancholy  poplars 
were  to  be  ^felieved  by  something  green  and 
hopeful — and  now  that  the  dusk  had  closed  in, 
and  the  lights  glared  up  to  the  sky,  and  the 
blurred  outline  of  a  mighty  city  seemed  to 
gather  round  us,  with  towers  and  spires  uplifted 
here  and  there  through  the  darkness,  a  great 
depression  fell  upon  me.  Yet  a  little  farther, 
and  the  houses  grew  thicker,  and  the  lights 
nearer.  Then  came  nothing  but  stone  walls  on 
either  side,  and  a  glass  roof  over  head,  and  a 
blaze  of  brilliant  gas ;  and  it  was  Paris  at  last. 

We  alighted,  and  there,  as  usual,  was  Tippoo 
waiting  to  receive  us. 

"  Look  round,  Barbara,"  said  Mr.  Farquhar, 
"  and  see  if  there  be  any  face  you  know." 

I  looked  round  ;  but,  though  the  platform  was 
not  crowded,  I  saw  no  one  who  I  could  suppose 
was  there  to  meet  me.  We  went  into  the 
waiting  rooms;  but  they  were  empty.  We 
came  back  to  the  platform ;  and  still  with  the 
same  result. 

"  They  have  either  forgotten  you,  Barbarina, 
or  made  some  mistake  about  the  time,"  said  my 
companion.  "  And  yet  the  train  is  true  to  a 
minute." 

"  And  I  wrote  last  evening  from  Coblentz," 
said  I,  "as  soon  as  we  arrived.  It  is  not  flatter- 
ing to  be  forgotten." 

"  At  all  events  you  remember  your  father's 
address?" 

"  No — but  I  have  his  letter  in  my  pocket." 

"  Then  we  need  only  send  Tippoo  for  a  cab. 
Here,  Tippoo — a  voiture  de  place .'" 


But,  to  my  dismay,  I  could  not  find  the  letter 
One  by  one,  I  took  out  all  the  contents  of  my 
pocket,  and  found  that,  beyond  a  doubt,  I  had 
left  the  letter  on  my  bedroom  table  at  the  hotel 
in  Coblentz.  I  had  no  need  to  tell  of  my  loss 
— my  face  told  it  for  me. 

"Never  mind!"  said  Hugh,  smiling.  "The 
misfortune  is  not  irreparable.  We  must  e'en 
go  to  Meurice's  together,  and  be  fellow-travelers 
for  twelve  hours  longer." 

"But " 

"But  I  engage  to  find  your  father  before 
noon  to-morrow;  so  think  no  more  about  it. 
Come,  it  is  of  no  use  to  linger  here." 

Just  at  this  moment,  as  we  were  preparing  to 
leave  the  station,  a  servant  in  livery  came 
hurrying  up  the  platform.  He  compared  his 
watch  wijh  the  railway-clock,  looked  at  me, 
looked  at  my  companion,  hesitated,  looked  at 
the  clock  again,  and  finally,  touching  his  hat, 
came  forward  and  said — 

"  Pardon,  Madame  I  Je  cherche  Mademoiselle 
Churchill." 

Which  statement  put  an  end  to  all  my  diffi- 
culties. 

Mr.  Farquhar  gave  me  his  arm  ;  the  servant 
preceded  us ;  a  porter  followed  with  the  lug- 
gage ;  and  Tippoo  brought  up  the  rear.  To 
my  surprise,  I  found  a  carriage  drawn  up  and 
waiting  for  me  at  the  entrance — a  superb  car- 
riage, with  blazing  lamps,  and  crested  hammer- 
cloths,  and  a  pair  of  magnificent  bays. 

"  Adieu,  Barbara,"  said  Hugh,  as  I  turned  to 
say  good-by.     "  Our  companionship  is  ended." 

"  For  the  present,  Mr.  Farquhar." 

"Ay  —  for  the  present.  Who  cares  for  the 
past,  and  who  dare  answer  for  the  future  ?  Thou 
wilt  forget  me  when  I  am  gone  —  eh,  little  Bar- 
bara ?" 

"No,  sir." 

"  '  JVb,  sir,'  indeed  !  Why  you  are  as  spr;^  • 
ing  of  protest  as  Cordelia  herself !  I  shall  seud 
Tippoo  on  the  box,  to  see  you  safely  home.  Is 
this  your  father's  carriage  ?" 

"  I  do  not  think;  so." 

"Nay,  then,  whence  comes  it?" 

"  I  neither  know  nor  care ;  but,  if  you  are 
curious,  you  can  inquire." 

"Of  course  I  shall  inquire.  There  maybe 
witchcraft  in  it.  Good  Heavens  !  it  might  turn 
to  a  pumpkin  before  you  were  half-way  home  — 
who  knows  ?" 

And  with  this  he  asked  the  servant  to  whom 
the  equipage  belonged. 

"^  Monsieur  le  Comte  de  GhaumontJ^ 

"To  your  future  brother-in-law,  Barbarina; 
who,  it  appears,  is  as  good  a  judge  of  a  horse 
as  of  a  bride.  Now,  fare-you-well,  since  I  know- 
that  you  are  in  safe  custody." 

"Good-by  —  but  do  not  send  Tippoo  with 
me.     It  is  quite  unnecessary."  - 

"  It  is  not  unnecessary,  if  I  choose  to  be  sat- 
isfied of  youi  safety.  Besides,  I  shall  then 
know  your  address." 

"And  will  you  make  use  of  it?"  I  asked, 
eagerly.  "  Will  you  come  and  see  mc,  before 
you  go  to  St.  Petersburgh  ?" 

He  lingered  for  a  moment  with  my  hand  in 
his,  and  his  foot  on  the  carriage-step. 

"  I  do  not  know  —  perhaps  !"  he  said  abrupt- 
ly ;  and  so  shut  the  door  upon  me,  and  turned 
away. 

In   another  moment  I  was  whirling  through 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


85 


he  busy  Paris  streets  —  streets  bright  as  day, 
ined  with  foUage,  crowded  with  pleasure-seek- 
rs,  and  noisy  with  the  multitudinous  life  of  a 
-leat  city  !  Dazzled  and  bewildered,  I  knew 
lot  at  which  side  to  look,  or  what  most  to  ad- 
aiire ;  and  in  the  midst  of  it  all,  the  scene 
changed  to  what  seemed  like  a  huge  park  trav- 
ersed by  innumerable  avenues  of  lamps,  and 
filled  with  one  moving  mass  of  carriages  and 
riders.  Here  we  proceeded  for  some  distance 
at  a  foot-pace,  till  we  came  to  a  large  circular 
opening  with  a  fountain  in  the  midst,  and  then 
turned  aside  into  an  avenue,  comparatively  dark 
and  empty,  with  houses  peeping  whitcly  through 
the  trees.  Before  one  of  these  we  stopped.  It 
was  a  handsome  residence,  with  a  garden  and  a 
high  wall  dividing  it  from  the  road,  and  heavy 
wooden  gates,  that  opened  to  admit  the  carriage. 

An  English  page,  in  a  plain  black  suit,  was 
waiting  in  the  hall.  I  alighted  and  iOoked 
round  for  Tippoo,  but  he  was  already  gone ;  so 
I  followed  the  servant  up-stairs,  not  without 
some  little  agitation,  and  wondered  with  what 
kind  of  reception  I  should  meet.  At  the  first 
landing  he  paused,  threw  open  a  door,  and 
stood  aside  to  let  me  pass. 

It  was  a  spacious  drawing-room,  dimly  lighted 
and  richly  furnished. 

"  Mrs.  and  Miss  Churchill  are  gone  to  the 
opera,"  said  the  lad,  seeing  me  look  round. 

"  Gone  to  the  opera  ?" 

"Yes,  miss,  with  the  Count  de  Chaumont. 
The  Count's  carriage  went  to  fetch  you  after 
setting  them  down." 

"  And  my  father  ?" 

"  Master  is  at  his  club,  miss.  Would  you 
please  to  have  any  refreshment?" 

I  sat  down,  wearily,  upon  the  nearest  sofa ; 
scarce  able  to  keep  down  the  rising  tears. 

"  You  can  bring  me  some  coffee,"  I  replied. 
"  And  desire  some  one,  if  you  please,  to  show 
me  to  my  bed-chamber.". 

I  looked  round  the  room.  A  few  illustrated 
books  with  indifferent  engravings  and  rich  bind- 
ings lay  scattered  here  and  there  upon  the 
tables.  The  card-baskets  were  full  of  cards. 
A  pile  of  Hilda's  music  lay  upon  the  piano.  A 
shawl  of  Mrs.  Churchill's  showed  from  which 
couch  she  had  last  risen.  A  superb  bouquet  in 
a  vase  on  one  of  the  side-tables  told  of  the  last 
night's  party.     I  sighed. 

"  What  would  I  not  give  that  it  were  all 
over,"  thought  I,  "  and  I  going  back  to  Zollen- 
strasse  to-morrow !  Well,  at  all  events,  I  shall 
see  the  Louvre  !" 

My  reverie  was  interrupted  by  the  return  of 
the  page,  who  brought  me  a  very  small  cup  of 
coffee  on  a  very  large  salver.  This  youth  was 
closely  followed  by  a  smart  French  lady's  maid, 
who  wore  her  hair  drawn  back  d  la  Chbioise, 
and  conducted  me  up-stairs  to  a  small  ill-fur- 
nished room  on  the  fourth  story.  Her  name, 
she  informed  me,  was  Juliette,  and  she  was  Mrs. 
Churchill's  fcmmc  de  chambre.  Being  abundant- 
ly loquacious,  she  then  went  on  to  say  that  she 
hoped  to  transfer  herself  and  her  accomplish- 
ments to  the  service  of  that  charmante  demoi- 
selle, my  sister,  on  her  auspicious  marriage  with 
M'sieur  le  Comte  de  Chaumont.  As  for  Hilda, 
Mademoiselle  Juliette  averred  that  she  had 
never  known  any  lady  upon  whom  the  arts  of 
dress  were  more  satisfactorily  bestowed.     She 


was  so  beautiful — she  had  such  enchanting 
taste — she  so  amply  repaid  all  the  pains  that 
one  could  take  to  adorn  her  charms  to  the 
greatest  advantage.  Then  her  hair  —  Ah,  c'lel ! 
it  was  a  real  pleasure  to  dress  such  hair  as  Ma- 
demoiselle Hilda^s  !  She  looked  ravishing  with 
it  in  every  style  you  could  name — whether  a  la 
Grecque ;  or  in  bands;  or  in  ringlets  a  V  An- 
glaise  ;  or  a  la  Sevlffne  ;  or  drawn  simply  back, 
(i  V Espagnole,  with  one  little  mignonne  curl  on 
each  cheek ;  or  even  with  it  powdered  d,  la  Ma- 
rie Antoinette,  as  Mademoiselle  wore  it  last 
Thursday  week  at  the  Prefet's  fancy-ball.  Ah  ! 
let  one  figure  that  to  one's  self -powdered,  posi- 
tively powdered  !  But  then  Mademoiselle  Bar- 
bara's hair  was  lovely,  also.  And  Mademoi- 
selle's was  of  the  finest  quality ;  soft,  glossy, 
abundant,  and  of  that  exquisite  brown  (the 
brown  with  the  chestnut  flush)  which  is  so  greatly 
admired  in  the  beau  monde !  Decidedly,  Made- 
moiselle Barbara  would  find  the  new  rouleaux 
very  becoming. 

But  I  protested  that  I  had  no  wish  to  change 
the  familiar  fashion  of  my  hair  ;  whereat  Made- 
moiselle Juliette  held  up  both  her  hands,  and 
refused  to  entertain  any  such  possibility.  Of  all 
the  essential  points  connected  with  a  lady's  toi- 
lette, said  she,  the  art  of  arranging  the  hair  was 
the  most  important.  To  judge  of  styles  and 
their  application  to  individuals,  was  in  itself  a 
study  —  a  study  to  which  she,  Mademoiselle 
Juliette,  had  devoted  herself  from  her  youth 
upward,  and  in  which,  without  vanity,  she  be- 
lieved herself  without  a  rival.  This  being  the 
case,  and  as  if  was  likewise  the  express  desire 
of  Madame  Churchill  and  Mademoiselle  Hilda 
that  she  should  make  it  her  especial  care  to 
transform  me  as  speedily  as  possible  into  a 
faultless  Parisienne,  she  must  begin  by  entreat- 
ing that  I  would  permit  her  to  dress  my  hair  to- 
morrow morning  d  VEspagnole,  which  she  was 
persuaded  would  improve  the  contour  of  my 
head,  display  the  moulding  of  my  throat,  and 
bring  out  the  intellectuality  of  my  forehead  in  a 
most  unprecedented  and  surprising  manner !  To 
all  of  .which,  being  excessively  tired  and  preoc- 
cupied, I  replied  briefly  enough ;  and  brought 
the  subject  to  an  end  by  dismissing  Mademoi- 
selle Juliette  for  the  night. 

From  my  window  I  could  see  down  to  the 
end  of  the  road,  where  it  opened  upon  the 
great  Park  through  which  I  had  passed  on  my 
way.  The  carriages  were  still  going  by  in  one 
continuous  stream,  and  I  leaned  out  for  a  long 
time,  watching  the  bright  lamps  flitting  through 
the  trees,  like  a  current  of  fire-flies.  It  was 
strange  to  think  of  how  much  love  and  how 
much  hate,  what  youth,  what  age,  what  eager 
pleasure-seekers,  and  what  wearied  world-worn 
hearts  those  lamps  were  lighting  through  the 
dusk  of  the  sweet  summer  night.  Stranger 
still,  that  this  should  be  Paris,  and  that  hun- 
dreds of  miles  hence,  deep  down  amid  the  pine- 
grown  hills  that  leaned  above  the  waters  of  the 
Upper  Main,  kind  hearts  and  loving  lips  were, 
perhaps,  .at  this  very  moment,  busy  with  my 
name. 

At  twelve  o'clock  the  scene  was  still  the  same, 
and  the  moving  lamps  were  undiminished  in 
number ;  so,  weary  and  sad,  I  closed  the  case- 
ment, and  went  to  bed. 

I  fell  asleep  immediately,  and  had  slept  for 


m 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


a  long  time  —  or  for  what  seemed  a  long  time, 
so  dreamless  was  my  sleep — when  I  was  awaken- 
ed by  a  hand  on  my  shoulder,  and  a  sudden 
light  throughout  the  room. 

"Barbara!"  said  a  familiar  voice.  "Barbara, 
dear !  we  are  just  home,  and  I  would  not  go  to 
bed  without  seeing  you." 

"Hilda!"  I  exclaimed,  forgetting  where  I 
was,  and  looking  up  with  a  vague  wonder  at  the 
radiant  creature  beside  my  bed.  "  Why,  where 
have  you  been  ?" 

"  To  the  opera  first,  and  then  to  a  reception 
at  the  Prussian  embassy.  Did  not  Bruce  tell 
you  ?" 

"  To  the  opera  ?"  I  repeated.  "  Ab,  true  — 
I  remember.     And  the  Count  ?" 

*'  The  Count  de  Chaumont  was  with  us,  of 
course.  He  goes  everywhere  with  us.  To- 
night he  gave  me  this  bracelet  —  see,  is  it  not 
beautiful? — a  snake  in  blue  enamel,  set  with 
diamonds  I" 

I  looked  at  the  bracelet,  and  then  at  her. 

"  I  scarcely  know  which  is  the  more  beau- 
tiful," I  said,  smiling.  "He  may  well  be  proud 
of  you !" 

She  laughed,  cast  away  the  lace  cloak  from 
her  shoulders,  and  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  my 
bed. 

"He  is  proud  of  me,"  she  replied,  well 
pleased  with  my  admiration.  "He  already  in- 
troduces mamma  to  every  one  as  his  belle-mere, 
and  not  a  day  passes  that  he  does  not  bring  me 
some  splendid  gift.  On  Thursday  it  was  an  or- 
nament for  my  hair,  and  yesterday  it  was  his 
portrait  set  as  a  brooch.  Wolild  you  like  to 
see  it?" 

"  Indeed,  yes  —  if  you  do  not  mind  the 
trouble  of  bringing  it!" 

"  Oh,  my  bedroom  is  next  to  yours,  and  the 
case  lies  on  the  table.  I  shall  not  be  a  mo- 
ment !" 

And  with  this  she  flitted  away,  and  came  back 
with  the  portrait  in  her  hand. 

"  Mind,"  said  she,  with  a  somewhat  embar- 
rassed gayety,  "you  must  tell  me  exactly  what 
you  think  of  him  —  I  bargain  for  that." 

I  took  it,  glanced  at  it,  and,  taken  by  sur- 
prise, uttered  an  exclamation  of  dismay. 

"Is  it  possible,"  I  cried,  "that he  is  as  old  as 
this  ?" 

She  looked  down,  and  bit  her  lip. 

"He  is  not  old,"  she  said.  "  At  least,  not 
so  very  old  !     He  is  a  year  younger  than  papa." 

"  A  year  younger  than  papa,"  I  repeated. 
"Oh,  Hilda!" 

"  And  his  features  are  very  fine.  Indeed,  he 
is  still  considered  a  remarkably  handsome  man." 

"  And  you  love  him  ?" 

"  Yes — that  is  to  say,  I  love  him — of  course  I 
love  him.  Quite  as  much  as — as  I  ought.  Why 
not  ?" 

I  continued  looking  at  the  portrait,  and  made 
no  reply. 

"  Besides,"  added  my  sister,  getting  more  and 
more  piqued,  "  we  do  not  live  in  the  times  of  the 
Troubadours  and  Crusaders,  or  expect  to  find 
Leanders  and  Romeos  every  day  at  our  feet. 
Matters  are  differently  managed  in  the  beau 
moncle,  my  dear ;  and  people  who  marry  for  rank 
and  wealth  are  not  supposed  to  be  dying  for  love  ! 
The  Count  is  very  generous,  very  gentlemanly, 
highly  dlstingiie,  and  quite  rich  enough  for  my 
ambition.     What  more  could  one  desire  ?" 


"  What  more  ?  Nay,  no  more,  if  this  be  suffi- 
cient." 

"  Sufficient  ?  Why,  Barbara,  how  absurd  you 
are  !  Do  you  think  1  would  marry,  if  I  were  not 
quite  sure  of  being  happy  ?  I  tell  you  that  I 
like  the  Count  very  much,  and  that  he  adores  me. 
I  know  that,  as  his  wife,  I  shall  never  have  a  de- 
sire ungratified.  I  shall  have  a  Hotel  in  Paris, 
and  a  villa  in  Florence  ;  I  shall  travel ;  I  shall 
go  into  the  best  society ;  I  shall  become  a  leader 
of  the  fashion  ;  and  have  as  much  money  as  I 
care  to  spend!" 

"  And  that  will  make  you  happy  ?" 

"  Happy  ?  Perfectly  happy.  Oh,  you  do  not 
know  all  that  I  intend  to  do  !  I  mean  to  dress 
better  than  Madame  de  Bernard — to  give  more 
elegant  soirees  than  the  Vicomtess  de  St.  Etienne 
— to— but  I  have  not  told  you  where  the  Count 
is  to  take  me  for  our  wedding  tour  !     Guess." 

"  How  should  I  guess,  dear  ?  Perhaps  to 
Naples  and  Sicily." 

"  Naples  and  Sicily  at  this  time  of  the  year  ? 
Why,  one  might  as  well  take  apartments  in  the 
crater  of  Vesuvius,  at  once  !  No — no,  Barbara. 
Guess  again." 

"Well,  Switzerland." 

"  Too  vulgar.  Every  one  goes  to  Switzerland 
in  the  autumn." 

"  Nay,  then,  I  am  utterly  at  a  loss.  Spain,  I 
suppose,  would  not  be  cool  enough,  nor  Scotland 
genteel  enough,  to  please  you.  If  it  be  not 
Vienna  and  the  Danube,  I  will  give  it  up." 

"  It  is  neither  Spain,  nor  Scotland,  nor  Vienna ; 
but  Norway  !  What  say  you  to  Norway  ?  Is  it 
not  a  magnificent  idea  ?" 

"  It  is  indeed.  Was  it  your  own  ?" 
.  "Entirely.  The  Count  asked  me  where  I 
should  like  to  go,  and  so  I  took  the  map,  and 
studied  the  matter  thoroughly.  It  must  not  be 
very  far  South,  I  said,  on  account  of  the  autumnal 
heat ;  and  it  must  not  be  on  the  beaten  track, 
because  I  should  like  to  do  something  original. 
And  then  I  decided  upon  Norway." 

"  Eh  bien  f  When  does  the  wedding  take 
place  ?" 

"  To-morrow  week — or,  rather,  this  day  week ; 
for  it  is  three  hours  past  midnight  I" 

"And  it  will  be  a  grand  affair,  no  doubt ?" 

"  Yes — as  grand  as  we  can  afford  to  make  it ; 
but  papa's  means,  you  know,  are  not  great,  and 
though  Mrs.  Churchill  is  well  off",  one  does  not 
like  to  owe  too  much  to  her  bounty.  However, 
the  Count  will  bear  a  part  of  the  expense.  We 
shall  be  married  first  at  the  Protestant  Chapel  In 
the  Rue  du  Chaillot,  and  from  thence  go  on  to 
the  Church  of  N6tre  Dame  de  Lorette  for  the 
Roman  Catholic  ceremony.  I  am  to  wear  white 
Brussels  lace  over  white  gros  de  Naples,  and  a  vail 
to  match.  The  lace  is  a  present  from  the  Count, 
and  Mrs.  Churchill  says  it  can  not  have  cost  less 
than  three  thousand  francs  !  But  it  is  shamefully 
late,  and  I  am  tired  to  death,  and  you,  by  the  by, 
have  been  traveling." 

"  Yes,  I  have  come  between  four  and  five  hun- 
dred miles  in  three  days." 

"  Poor  child  !  And  all  alone,  too." 
"  Not  alone.  I  had  an  escort  all  the  way." 
"  That  was  fortunate.  Some  acquaintance,  I 
suppose,  of  Madame  Brenner  ?  Ah,  mon  Dim  ! 
I  had  almost  forgotten  the  existence  of  Madame 
Brenner.  Does  the  College  still  stand  in  the  old 
place,  and  are  the  rolls  on  Monday  mornmgs  as 
stale  as  ever  ?" 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


87 


"  Every  thing  is  as  you  left  it,"  I  replied,  with 
a  sigh. 

"  Ainsi  soit  il !    Now  good-night !" 

I  embraced  her  silently,  and,  as  she  left  the 
room,  followed  her  with  my  eyes,  and  sighed 
again.  Was  it  possible  that  she  could  be  happy  ? 
She  seemed  so — and  yet — and  yet  it  was  but  a 
bartering  of  her  youth  and  beauty  !  Money, 
dress,  position,  and  the  empty  vanity  of  a  title — 
these  were  her  gods,  and  to  these  she  offered 
herself  as  a  sacrifice.  For  her,  neither  the  wo- 
man's dream  of  love,  nor  the  artist's  lofty  ani- 
bition — for  her,  neither  the  poetry,  nor  the  puri- 
ty, nor  the  passion  that  makes  life  beautiful,  and 
marriage  holy  !  Instead  of  home,  she  has  chosen 
society— instead  of  love,  the  admiration,  or 
envy,  of  a  careless  world — instead  of  Paradise, 
the  mirage  of  the  desert,  fruitless  as  the  sands, 
and  fleeting  as  the  mists  that  paint  it  on  the 
poisoned  air.  -^ 

Alas,  poor  Hilda ! 

— ♦ 

CHAPTER  XXX. 

AT    THE    OPERA    FRANgAISE. 

The  next  day,  when  we  were  assembled  in  the 
drawing-room  before  dinner,  waiting  the  arrival 
of  the  Count  de  Chaumont,  my  father  took  a 
card  from  his  waistcoat  pocket  and  handed  it  to 
Hilda,  saying — 

"  This  "was  left  for  you  to-day,  by  a  gentleman 
on  horseback.  Who  is  he  ?  I  do  not  remember 
the  name." 

"Nor  I,"  replied  my  'sister,  and  passed  it  to 
Mrs.  Churchill.  "  It  must  have  been  for  mam- 
ma," 

Mrs.  Churchill  looked  at  it  languidly,  through 
her  double  eye-glass,  and  shook  her  head. 

"  Never  heard  of  him  in  my  life,"  she  mur- 
mured, and  leaned  back  again  in  the  corner  of 
the  sofa. 

My  father  put  on  his  spectacles,  and  took  the 
card  over  to  the  window. 

"  I  feel  convinced,  Hilda,"  said  he,  "that  the 
visit  was  for  you.  You  must  have  been  introduced 
to  this  person  last  evening  at  the  Prussian  em- 
bassy ;  for  I  was  in  the  breakfast-room  when  he 
called,  and  I  heard  him  inquire  if  you  were  fa- 
tigued this  morning.  Just  consider.  Whom 
did  you  meet  last  evening  ?" 

"Very  few  English,"  said  she,  "and  none 
whom  I  had  not  met  before." 

"  Humph  !  It  is  scarcely  an  English  name — 
more  likely  Scotch,  by  the  sound  of  it.  Farqu- 
har !  Farquhar — ^let  me  see,  there  was  a  Cap- 
tain Farquharson  of — no,  that  can  have  nothing 
to  do  with  it.     How  singular  1" 

My  heart  beat,  and  my  color  rose  in  spite  of 
me. 

"  If  it  be  Mr.  Farquhar  of  Broomhill,"  I  said, 
nervously,  "  the  card  was  left  for  me.  He  ac- 
companied me  from  Zollenstrasse  to  Paris." 

They  all  turned  and  looked  at  me,  and  Hilda 
burst  out  laughing. 

"  Brava,  Barbara !"  she  exclaimed.  "  You 
begin  well.  Why,  how  you  blush  !  Who  is  this 
Mr.  Farquhar?" 

"Yes,  who  is  this  Mr.  Farquhar?"  repeated 
my  father,  drawing  himself  to  his  full  hight, 
and  assuming  his  most  dignified  deportment. 
"  Who  is  this  Mr.  Farquhar,  that  he  should  think 


fit  to  call  at  my  house  without  an  introduction  ? 
What  did  Madame  Brenner  know  of  liim,  that 
she  should  intrust  my  daughter  to  his  care  ?  I 
am  not  fond  of  these  English  frequenters  of 
petty  German  spas." 

"  Mr.  Farquhar  is  a  gentleman  of  family  and 
fortune,"  I  replied  ;  "  a  great  traveler,  and  a 
patron  of  the  fine  arts.  He  was  constantly  in 
the  society  of  the  Grand  Duke  ;  and  dined  fre- 
quently at  the  Residenz,  during  his  stay  at 
Zollenstrasse." 

"  And  that  is  all  that  any  one  knows  about 
him,  eh  ?" 

"  By  no  means,  sir,"  I  said,  firmly.  "  His 
estates  join  those  of  Mrs.  Sandyshaft ;  and  I 
know  every  inch  of  Broomliill  as  well  as  I 
know  the  College  in  which  I  have  been  brought 
up." 

My  father  coughed,  and  looked  disconcerted. 

"  Is  this  old  friend  of  yours  a  young  man, 
Barbara  ?"  asked  my  sister,  satirically. 

"  About  thirty-four." 

"And  tolerably  well  off?" 

"  I  remember  that  he  once  gave  six  thousand 
pounds  for  a  picture." 

Mrs.  Churchill  and  Hilda  exchanged  glances. 
My  father  rang  the  bell,  and  desired  Bruce  to 
fetch  a  certain  book  from  a  certain  shelf  in  the 
little  closet  which  they  dignified  by  the  name 
of  the  study.  It  was  a  thick  volume  in  an  old- 
fashioned  calf  binding  with  red  edges,  and  my 
father,  as  he  turned  over  the  leaves,  took  occa- 
sion to  inform  us  of  its  contents. 

".This  book,"  said  he,  "  gives  a  brief  account 
of  the  old  county  families  of  England.  It  goes 
wherever  I  go.  So  does  the  peerage,  and  so 
does  the  baronetage ;  but  this,  in  ordinary  cases, 
is  the  most  useful  of  the  three.  It  tells  one  who 
is  who,  which  is  no  trifling  advantage  abroad, 

and Ah  !  here  we  have  it.     '  Farquhar  of 

Broomhill'  —  humph  !  —  take  Broomhill  as  a 
kind  of  title,  like  the  Scotch  lairds  ;  very  curi- 
ous that !  '  One  of  the  oldest  families  of  East" 
Anglia ' — '  possessions  considerably  increased 
during  the  last  half  century ' — '  present  owner 
married  to  'Lucy,  eldest  daughter  of  J.  CUve, 
Esq.,   M.  P. — rental  from  twelve  to  fourteen 

thousand  per  annum ' So,   your  friend  is 

married,  Barbara  ?" 

"  No,  sir.  I  think  if  you  look  to  the  date — — " 

"  True — the  book  has  been  published  these 
twenty-five  or  thirty  years.  Then  the  present 
man  is  the  son  of  this  Farquhar  and  Lucy  his 
wife — I  see  !  And  what  do  you  say  is  his  age  ?" 

"  About  thirty-four,  I  believe." 

My  father  looked  at  me  thoughtfully,  and 
clinked  the  money  in  his  pockets. 

"  Fourteen  thousand  a  year  is  no  such  unde- 
sirable income !"  said  he,  more  to  himself  than 
me.  "  Ha ! — four — teen  thou — sand ;  and  thir — 
ty-three  years  of  age  !" 

'  Mrs.  Churchill  smiled,  and  nodded — (she  had 
the  art  of  implying  a  hod  with  her  eyelids, 
which  saved  trouble,  and  looked  distingue) — 
but  Hilda,  with  a  satirical  laugh,  repeated  my 
father's  last  words. 

"  Fourteen  thousand  and  thirty-three  years 
of  age  would  alone  be  a  guarantee  of  respecta- 
bility !"  said  she.  "No  occasion  to  look  in 
your  county  book,  papa,  when  a  man  is  his  own 
ancestry,  and  dates  himself  hack  to  the  Pre- 
Adamite  world !" 


83 


BARBARA'S   HISTORY. 


My  father's  brow  darkened.  According  to 
his  creed,  all  jesting  was  undignified  ;  but  a  jest 
at  his  expense,  or  a  play  upon  his  words,  was 
an  offense  little  short  of  treason.  Just,  how- 
ever, as  he  was  about  to  speak,  the  door  opened 
and  Bruce  announced — ■ 

"  Monsieur  the  Count  de  Chaumont." 
A  tall  grave  man,  with  a  conical  bald  head 
and  a  huge  white  moustache,  ,carae  into  the 
room  with  his  hat  under  his  arm,  and  one  glove 
dangling  in  his  hand.  Any  thing  more  stiff, 
polite,  and  diplomatic  it  would  be  impossible 
to  conceive.  He  bowed  profoundly  to  Mrs, 
Churchill ;  he  bowed  profoundly  to  my  father ; 
he  carried  Hilda's  hand  to  his  lips ;  and,  being 
introduced  to  me,  he  bowed  again.  This  done, 
he  sat  down  and  said  nothing,  till  we  were  sum- 
moned to  the  dinner-room. 

The   dinner   passed   off  grimly.     My  father 

was  still  annoyed  ;  Hilda  seemed  out  of  temper 

with  herself  and  every  one  ;    and   the  Count, 

^  who  had  no  conversation,  stared  incessantly  at 

'  Hilda  with  his  round  light  eyes,  and  adored  her 

in  silence. 

After  dinner,  we  went  up  to  dress  for  the 
opera. 

It  was  an  event  in  my  life,  and  I  had  been 
anticipating  it  the  whole  day  long  ;  so,  when 
Mademoiselle  Juliette  insisted  upon  dressing  me 
in  a  pink  silk  of  my  sister's,  with  trimmings  of 
flowers,  and  ribbons,  and  all  kinds  of  unaccus- 
tomed fineries,  I  submitted  with  slight  resist- 
ance. In  one  matter  only  I  would  have  my 
will ;  and  that  was  in  wearing  my  hair  as  I  .had 
always  worn  it,  twisted  plainly  round  a  comb, 
and  waving  round  my  forehead  in  its  own  un- 
controlled luxuriance. 

At  half-past  eight  o'clock  we  all  went  down 
to  the  theater  in  the  Count's  carriage,  and  the 
overture  was  just  ending  as  we  came  into  the 
box. 

Mrs.  Churchill  and  Hilda  took  the  front  seats, 
and»I  placed  myself  behind  them,  where  I  had  a 
good  view  of  the  stage.  The  curtain  rose  upon 
a  crowded  scene — the  first  chords  of  a  chorus 
broke  forth  at  once  from  a  couple  of  hundred 
voices  —  a  procession  of  monks  and  soldiers 
came  winding  down  a  rocky  pass  at  the  back — 
and  one  singer,  more  richly  dressed  than  the 
rest,  advanced  to  the  foothghts.  I  could  scarce- 
ly breathe,  for  wonder  and  delight ;  but  listened 
in  a  kind  of  ecstasy. 

"  Is  this  Mario  ?"  I  asked,  laying  my  hand  on 
Hilda's  shoulder, 

"  Mario  ?"  she  repeated,  "  How  absurd  ! 
This  is  the  Opera  Fran9aise,  Don't  you  hear 
that  they  are  singing  in  French  ?" 

"  I  had  not  observed  it,  I  thought  it  was  the 
Italian  theater.     How  should  I  know  ?" 

"  How  should  you  know  ?     Why,  every  one 
knows  that  the  Italian  season  only  lasts  from 
October  to  March !     How  stupid  you  are  !" 
I  drew  back,  pained  and  surprised. 
"  Two  months  ago,  Hilda,"  I  said,  "  you  knew 
as  little  of  these  matters  as  myself" 

And  so  the  conversation  dropped.  Her  mood 
puzzled  me.  Last  evening,  when  she  came  to 
my  bedroom  in  her  ball-dress,  she  seemed  kind, 
and  gay,  and,  as  I  then  thought,  more  than 

usually  affectionate  ;  but  now But  now  the 

novelty  and  splendor  of  the  theater  gave  me  no 
time  for  any  thing  but  admiration ;  so  I  dis- 
missed the  subject. 


To  this  day  I  remember  nothing  T^ut  the  be- 
wilderment with  which  I  gazed  and  listened.  I 
can  recall  neither  the  names  of  the  singers,  nor 
the  plot,  nor  the  title  of  the  piece,  nor  any  thing 
but  the  result  produced  upon  myself  Perhaps 
had  I  never  seen  any  kind  of  theater,  I  should 
have  expected  more,  and  have  been  less  de- 
lighted ;  but  I  had  formed  my  notions  of  the 
stage  upon  our  little  establishment  at  Zollen- 
strasse,  and  the  contrast  took  me  by  surprise. 
These  masterly  effects  of  light  and  distance ; 
the  grandeur  of  the  grouping ;  the  variety  of 
costume  ;  the  richness  and  harmony  of  color ; 
and,  above  all,  the  wonderfully  artistic  beauty 
of  the  scenery,  dazzled  me  on  the  side  of  pic- 
torial illusion,  and  carried  me  out  of  myself  I 
could  hardly  believe  that  all  was  not  real — that 
these  moving  masses  of  soldiers,  nobles,  and 
priests  were  not  actual  characters,  swayed  by 
actual  passions,  and  acted  upon  by  the  very 
"  form  and  pressure  "  of  the  time !  I  could  stiil 
less  believe  that  these  airy  distances  and  Claude- 
like vales,  these  palace-fronts,  and  endless  cor- 
ridors, were  mere  daubs  of  paint  and  canvas, 
to  be  looked  upon  from  afar.  All  seemed  per- 
fect, real,  wonderful ;  and  when  the  curtain  fell 
upon  the  first  act,  I  felt  as  Ferdinand  might 
have  felt  when  Prospero  suddenly  dismissed 
"  into  thin  air  "  his  masque  of  spirits. 

Mrs.  Churchill  tapped  me  on  the  cheek,  and 
smiled  benevolently. 

"  It  is  quite  a  luxury,  my  dear  child,"  said 
she,  "  to  witness  your  pleasure.  Come  now  to 
the  front  of  the  box,  and  look  round  the  house. 
This  is  the  interval  when  every  body  criticises 
every  body.  What  say  you  to  the  Parisian 
toilettes .?" 

"I  like  the  play  much  better,"  I  replied. 
"  Will  they  soon  begin  again  ?" 

"  Yes — in  about  ten  minutes.  Hilda,  my 
sweet  love,  who  is  that  distinguished-looking 
man  in  the  second  row  of  stalls  ?  His  glass  has 
been  leveled  at  our  box  for  the  last  three 
minutes. 

Involuntarily,  I  looked  in  the  direction  indi- 
cated. The  gentleman  lowered  his  glass,  and 
bowed  immediately. 

"It  is  Mr,  Farquhar,"  I  said,  with  something 
of  a  childish  triumph ;  and  returned  his  saluta- 
tion. 

"  Mr,  Farquhar  ?"  repeated  my  father,  and 
Hilda,  and  Mrs.  Churchill,  in  one  breath.  "  Is 
that  Mr.  Farquhar?" — and  pressed  forward  to 
look  at  him. 

"  A  very  gentlemanly  person,  upon  my  word," 
said  my  father,  approvingly.  "  Really,  a  very 
gentlemanly  person." 

"But  excessively  plain,"  added  Hilda. 
"Nay,  not  'excessively,'  my  love,"  said  Mrs, 
Churchill.     "Not  'excessively'  by  any  means. 
Rather  a — if  I  may  so  express  it — a  prepossess- 
ing plainness  ;  and  decidedly  aristocratic !" 

'■^  Mais  out — c'est  un  Monsieur  tres  comme  U 
faut,^^  chimed  in  the  Count,  with  a  glance  to- 
ward the  mirror  at  the  side  of  the  box, 

"  I — ahem  ! — I  really  am  of  opinion,"  said 
my  father,  "  that,  considering  all  Mr.  Farquhar's 
attention  to  Barbara,  I  might,  with  propriety, 
go  down  and  express  my  sense  of  obligation  in 
person.     What  do  you  say,  Mrs,  Churchill?'' 

"  That  it  would  be  only  correct  to  do  so ; 

and,  Mr,  Churchill,  bring  him  here  if  you  can!" 

So  my  father  took  his  hat,  and  went  down, 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


89 


and  vre  saw  him  presently  in  conversation  with 
that  very  Mr.  Farquhar  who  had  "  thought  fit " 
to  call  at  his  house  without  an  introduction. 
So  much  for  position,  and  a  rental  of  twelve  or 
fourteen  thousand  per  annum  !  In  the  course 
of  a  few  minutes  they  left  the  stalls  and  came 
up  to  our  box ;  where  Hugh  Farquhar  was  for- 
mally introduced. 

"  Delighted,  I  am  sure,"  murmured  Mrs. 
Churchill,  with  the  most  benignant  smile.  "  Gen- 
tleman of  Mr.  Farquhar's  position  and  taste — 
kind  attentions  to  our  darling  girl  —  charmed 
with  the  opportunity  of  expressing  our  gratitude. 
Barbara,  my  love — a  seat  for  Mr.  Farquhar  !" 

"I  think,"  said  he,  "that  I  have  had  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  Mrs.  Churchill  before." 

Mrs.  Churchill  suspended  the  dexterous  flut- 
ter of  her  fan,  and  expressed  interrogation  with 
her  eyebrows.  ^ 

"  At  Homburg,"  replied  Hugh,  "  if  I  remem- 
ber rightly ;  about  four  years  ago." 

"I  did  once  visit  Homburg  in  the  spring," 
hesitated  Mrs.  Churchill,  "  and  it  was  probably 
about  that  time  ;  but  I  am  ashamed  to  confess 
that " 

"  Oh,  Madam,  I  did  not  imply  that  I  had  had 
the  honor  of  an  introduction !  There  ai'e  per- 
sons whom  to  see  is  to  remember." 

Mrs.  Churchill  bowed,  and  tried  to  look  as  if 
she  blushed.  Her  good  opinion  was  won  for- 
ever. Hugh  turned  to  me  as  the  curtain  rose, 
and  withdrew  to  the  back  of  the  box. 

"Why,  Barbarina,"  he  said,  "you  are  trans- 
formed to-night !  Where  is  the  Jenny  Wren 
dress?  I  seem  scarcely  to  know  you  m  any 
other." 

"  I  scarcely  know  myself,  Mr.  Farquhar,"  I 
replied.  "  I  like  my  brown  feathers  better  than 
all  this  gay  plumage." 

"  So  do  I — and  yet,  somehow,  it  pleases  me 
to  see  you  thus.  It  looks  young  and  bright; 
and  heaven  knows  that  you  are  young  and 
bright  enough  !  Never  so  bright,  I  fancy,  as  to- 
night." 

"  That  is  because  I  have  been  so  much  ex- 
cited." 

"  By  the  music  ?" 

"  No — strangely  enough  ;  not  so  much  by  the 
music,  as  by  the  grandeur  of  the  scenes  and  cos- 
tumes. I  can  not  describe  to  you  how  these 
have  affected  me.  Each  time  the  curtain  rises, 
I  feel  as  if  a  window  were  opened  into  fairy 
land !" 

"  That  is  because  your  artistic  perce}  -tions  are 
more  highly  educated  than  your  ear.  Your 
sense  of  color,  of  form,  of  composition,  is  being 
perpetually  gratified  ;  and  each  scene  presents 
you  with  a  gallery  of  living  pictures.  For  my 
part,  I  am  more  influenced  by  the  music ;  and 
yet  I  love  art  almost  as  well  as  you  love  it. 
How  do  you  account  for  that  ?" 

"  Easily  enough.  Your  tastes  are  variously  cul- 
tivated, and  your  judgment  is  matured.  Amid 
many  things,  you  know  how  to  choose  the  best, 
and,  having  chosen,  accept  the  rest  as  ad- 
juncts." 

"  Excellently  reasoned  !"  exclaimed  Hugh ; 
"  and  truly  reasoned,  too.  How  is  it  that  you 
are  so  good  a  logician  ?" 

"I  am  no  logician,  Mr.  Farquhar.  .How 
should  I  be  ?" 

"Nay,   how  should  you  not  be,  being  an 


artist?  It  is  the  power  of  rightly  seeing  Na" 
ture  that  makes  the  painter ;  and  to  see  rightly 
with  the  eyes  of  the  body,  is  surely  but  a  step- 
ping-stone to  seeing  rightly  with  the  eyes  of  the 
mind." 

"I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  I  replied  laugh- 
ingly. "  Between  a  landscape  and  a  proposition 
there  is  a  considerable  difference.  But  the 
scene  changes — oh,  how  lovely  !  See,  the  light 
absolutely  flickers  on  that  water — the  gondola 
casts  a  reflection  that  moves  with  it — the  moon 
goes  behind  a  cloud !     Can  this  be  art  ?" 

"  Not  high  art,  certainly,"  replied  Hugh. 

"  Because  it  is  higher  than  art !  It  is  nature 
herself !  Oh,  Mr.  Farquhar,  I  feel  as  if  I  should 
never  care  to  paint  again,  after  this !" 

"  You  are  a  foolish  child,  and  know  not  what 
you  say,"  said  he,  impatiently.  "I  tell  you 
this  is  not  pure  art — nay,  it  is  but  one  third  art, 
and  two-thirds  machinery.  This  ripple  is  pro- 
duced by  moving  lights  behind  the  canvas,  and 
that  moon  is  made  of  muslin  and  gas  !  All  that 
you  see  here  is  imitation ;  and  art  does  not  im- 
itate— it  interprets." 

"Hush — do  not  destroy  the  illusion  !" 

"  I  am  willing  to  leave  you  the  illusion,  Bar- 
barina ;  but  I  can  not  suffer  you  to  mistake 
illusion  for  art." 

"  Suffer  me,  then,  to  mistake  it  for  nature." 

"  Worse  again !  Learn  to  accept  it  for  what 
it  is.  Accept  it  as  an  ingenious  and  beautiful 
background  to  a  fine  story  ;  and  remember  that 
mock  moons  and  practicable  waves  bear  to  true 
painting  the  same  relation  that  wax-modehng 
bears  to  sculpture.  But  silence  for  a  moment. 
I  want  you  to  hear  this  duo.^^ 

I  leaned  back,  and  listened.  The  audience 
was  profoundly  silent,  and  a  semi-darkness  pre- 
vailed in  every  part  of  the  theater.  In  the 
orchestra  only  a  single  harp  was  heard,  and  to 
this  accompaniment  the  two  voices  rose  and  fell, 
mingled  and  parted,  threaded  all  the  involutions 
of  harmony  and  all  the  mazes  of  passion,  and 
died  away  at  last,  tremblingly,  throbbingly, 
wearily — like  a  whirlwind  wasted  of  its  fury,  or 
a  heart  of  its  desire  ! 

Then  came  a  moment  of  intense  suspense,  and 
then,  before  the  last  vibration  seemed  quite 
to  have  faded  from  the  air,  a  storm  of  applause 
that  shook  the  very  chandeliers  above  our 
heads  ! 

"  Well,  Barbara,"  murmured  Hugh,  bending 
so  low  that  I  felt  his  breath  upon  my  shoulder ; 
"  is  this  true  art,  think  you  ?  But,  child,  you 
are  weeping!" 

I  raised  my  hand  to  my  cheek,  and  found  it 
wet  with  tears. 

"I  did  not  know  it,"  I  faltered.  "  It  was  so 
wild  and  sad,  that " 

"That,  like  Jessica,  you  are  'never  merry 
when  you  hear  sweet  music!'  Tender  little 
heart !  it  is  as  susceptible  to  all  the  influences 
of  feeling,  as  a  flower  to  the  changes  of  the 
sky !" 

There  was  a  strange,  caressing  gentleness  in 
his  voice,  as  he  said  this,  which  brought  my 
color  back  and  made  me  tremble.  Involuntari- 
ly, I  looked  up  to  see  if  any  one  were  listening; 
but  my  father  was  gone;  the  Count  de  Chau- 
mont  was  talking  in  an  undertone  to  Hilda ; 
and  Mrs.  Churchill's  eyes  were  discreetly  fixed 
upon  the  stage. 


90 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


"I  did  not  think  to  see  you  here  to-night, 
Barbara,"  he  continued — "still  less  to  be  so 
near  you." 

*'  I  am  very  glad  —  it  was  so  good  of  you  to 
come  up.  You  had  a  much  better  place  in  the 
stalls." 

"  That  is  a  matter  of  opinion,  carina.  I  have 
the  bad  taste  to  prefer  this.  But,  tell  me,  were 
you  up  this  morning  when  I  called  ?" 

*'Yes;  but  I  never  heard  of  your  visit  till 
many  hours  after.  Papa  thought  at  first  that 
you  left  your  card  for  Hilda." 

"  Cupid  and  the  Count  ibrbid  !  Ifais,  dites 
done,  how  do  you  fancy  your  future  brother-in- 
law?" 

I  sighed,  and  shook  my  head. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  it  is  a  sacrifice. 

*  Crabbed  age  and  youth 
Can  not  live  together.' 

I  never  could  understand  the  loves  of  Goethe 
and  Bettina !  Your  father,  by  the  way,  is  polite 
enough  to  invite  me  to  the  wedding ;  and  also 
to  dine  with  him  to-morrow." 

"  And  you  will  come?" 

*'  To-morrow — yes." 

"  And  to  the  wedding  ?" 

"  If  I  can ;  but  I  may  be  far,  far  hence,  ere 
then ;  where  no  echoes  of  marriage  bells  can 
follow  me !" 

"  So  soon,  Mr.  Farquhar  ?" 

"  So  late,  you  mean  !  There,  let  us  say  no 
more  of  it.     I  am  not  yet  gone." 

"But  you  are  going !" 

"  I  am  going  —  yes,  I  am  going,  '  sith  I  have 
cause  and  will,  and  strength,  and  means  to  do 
it.'  Strength,  do  I  say  ?  Pshaw  !  the  words 
are  not  mine,  but  Hamlet's  !" 

Startled  by  the  vehemence  of  his  manner,  I 
drew  back  and  looked  at  him  ;  but  he  turned 
his  face  quickly  away,  and  said  no  more.  Just 
at  this  moment  the  curtain  fell  again,  and  he 
took  the  opportunity  to  leave  us.  As  he  made 
his  adieux,  I  saw  that  he  looked  pale  and  dis- 
turbed ;  but  no  one  else  observed  it.  Mrs. 
Churchill  gave  him  her  hand. 

"  Then  to-morrow,  at  seven  o'clock,  Mr.  Far- 
quhar," said  she,  "we  may  expect  to  be  indulg- 
ed with  the  pleasure  of  your  society  ?" 

"  To-morrow  at  seven.  Madam,  the  indulgence 
will  be  yours — the  pleasure  mine." 

Saying  this,  he  bowed  over  her  hand,  as 
tliough  it  had  been  the  hand  of  an  Empress,  and 
touched  it  with  his  lips.  To  Hilda  he  bowed 
also,  but  more  distantly,  and  from  me  he  parted 
silently,  with  a  warm  pressure  of  the  hand. 

"  My  dear  Barbara,"  sighed  Mrs.  Churchill, 
as  the  door  closed  behind  him,  "  that  is  the  most 
elegant,  the  most  aristocratic,  the  most  gentle- 
manly man  I  have  met  for  many  a  season  !  I 
am  not  given  to  sudden  prepossessions — far  from 
it ! — but  I  protest  that  with  Mr.  Farquhar  I  am 
positively  fascinated  !" 

"  Mais  oni,''^  repeated  the  Count.  "  C^est  un 
Monsieur  tres  comme  il  fauV 

"  Quite  the  tone  of  high  society !"  said  Mrs. 
Churchill. 

'■'- Tout-ii-fait^^  replied  the  Count  senten- 
tiously. 

"And  evidently  a  person  of  education  and 
judgment.  But,  my  darling  Hilda,  you  say 
nothing  ?" 


"  Because  I  have  nothing  to  say,"  retorted  my 
sister,  with  a  scornful  smile.  "  Your  vara  avis 
appears  to  me  to  be  a  very  ordinary  biped.'' 

Mrs.  Churchill's  color  rose.  She  leaned  back, 
toyed  with  her  glass,  and  said,  in  her  most 
measured  accents — 

"  Your  mistake,  my  love,  arises  from  igno- 
rance of  the  world.  You  have  yet  much  to 
learn ;    but  you  are  improving." 

Hilda  bit  her  lip,  and  turned  to  the  stage  with 
an  impatient  gesture ;  the  Count  looked  puz- 
zled ;  and  Mrs.  Churahill  smiled  in  the  calm  con- 
sciousness of  victory. 

As  for  me,  I  scarcely  heeded  their  conversa- 
tion. My  eyes  were  fixed  upon  Mr.  Farquhar's 
vacant  stall ;  but  he  occupied  it  no  more  that 
night. 

♦ 

CHAPTER  XXXI. 

DOMESTIC     DETAILS. 

"  We  are  appreciated,"  writes  a  cynic,  "  not 
for  what  we  are,  but  for  what  others  think  of 
us." 

And  my  belief  in  that  maxim  dates  from  the 
time  when  Hugh  Farquhar  became  known  to  my 
family.  They  respected  him  on  account  of  his 
position  ;  they  liked  him  because  he  was  pleased 
to  exert  himself  to  make  them  do  so ;  and  the 
result  of  all  this  was  that  I  came  in  for  some 
share  of  their  good  opinion.  He  was  attentive 
to  me ;  and  they  became  considerate.  He  loved 
to  talk  with  me ;  and  therefore  they  began  to 
suppose  that  I  might  have  some  kind  of  clever- 
ness. He  praised  me ;  and  they  discovered 
that  I  was  amiable.  In  a  few  days  my  position 
at  home  was  radically  changed.  I  found  myself 
listened  to,  consulted,  placed  on  an  equal  foot- 
ing with  Hilda,  and  in  all  respects  treated  as  it 
was  pleasant  to  be  treated.  The  morning  after 
we  had  been  to  the  theater,  my  father  called 
me  into  his  "  study,"  and  gaye  me  a  check  for 
six  hundred  francs,  intimating  that  I  tvas  to  use 
that  sum  for  my  present  necessities,  that  I  should 
have  more  in  the  course  of  a  couple  of  days,  and 
that  I  was  to  be  sure  and  make  "  as  good  an  ap- 
pearance" as  ray  sister.  Mrs.  Churchill,  not  to  be 
outdone  in  generosity,  presented  me  with  a  brace- 
let of  mosaic-work,  and  devoted  one  whole  morn- 
ing to  accompany  me  in  my  sliopping — on  which 
occasion,  however,  I  persisted,  to  her  great  dis- 
may, in  preferring  a  plain  brown  silk  of  rich 
quality,  to  all  the  delicate  light  fabrics  which 
were  put  before  me.  In  vain  she  argued  that 
it  looked  too  sober,  and  old,  and  somber  for  my 
wearing.  I  was  determined  to  adhere  to  my 
"  Jenny  Wren"  colors,  at  all  events  on  ordinary 
occasions,  and  only  consented  to  purchase 
lighter  materials  for  the  wedding,  on  condition 
that  I  retained  the  one  dress  in  which  I  knew 
lie  would  prefer  to  see  me. 

Altogether,  I  was  much  happier  in  my  home 
relations  than  I  had  ever  been  before  ;  I  should 
have  been  happier  still,  but  for  the  daily  and  in- 
creasing coldness  with  which  Hilda  treated  me. 
Communicative  and  pleasant  on  the  night  of  my 
arrival,  she  was  now  fretful,  impatient,  and  re- 
served. Nothing  that  I  did  was  right — nothing 
that  I  said  pleased  her.  She  could  scarcely 
hear  Hugh  Farquhar's  name  without  some  sar- 
castic   or    depreciatory   remark.      One  might 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


91 


almost  have  believed  that  she  hated  him  for 
being  my  friend,  and  me  for  the  consideration 
with  which  he  treated  me.  As  for  the  renova- 
tion of  my  wardrobe,  and  my  father's  recom- 
mendation to  make  as  "good  an  appearance" 
as  herself,  she  laughed  it  to  scorn,  and  protested 
that  it  was  the  most  ridiculous  arrangement  she 
had  heard  in  her  life.  Considering  that  she 
was  to  be  married  within  a  week,  and  that  none 
of  these  domestic  trifles  could  be  of  import  to 
her  in  her  new  sphere,  I  thought  her  remarks 
on  this  head  singularly  illiberal.  Even  the  poor 
Count  received  his  share  of  her  displeasure,  and 
led,  at  this  time,  the  most  miserable  life  in  the 
world.  She  quarreled  with  him  continually ; 
if  quarreling  it  can  be  called,  where  on  one. 
side  all  is  tyranny,  and  on  the  other  all  submis- 
sion. I  even  fancied,  more  than  once,  that  she 
had  conceived  some  strange  and  sudden  dislike 
to  him,  and  would  fain  have  got  rid  of  Kim  if 
she  could ! 

In  the  mean  time  the  days  went  by,  and  the 
eventful  one  di'cw  nearer.  The  breakfast  was 
ordered  from  Tortoni's — the  passports  of  M.  le 
Comte  and  Madame  la  Comtesse  de  Chaumont 
were  made  out  for  Norway.  The  light  travel- 
ing-carriage which  was  to  accompany  them  for 
their  use  in  a  country  where  railroads  and  com- 
fortable post-chaises  were  unknown,  had  been 
brought  round  for  Hilda's  inspection,  and  dis- 
missed with  approval.  The  guests  were  invited 
to  the  number  of  forty  in  the  morning,  and  one 
hundred  in  the  evening.  And,  above  all,  Sir 
Agamemnon  Churchill  —  he  whose  glory  had 
been  the  tradition  of  our  childhood ;  whose  por- 
trait (as  the  knave  of  clubs)  hung  in  the  place 
of  honor  in  our  London  home ;  whose  position 
as  a  knight,  a  herald,  and  an  archaeologist  placed 
him  at  the  head  of  all  that  now  remained  of  our 
branch  of  the  great  Marlborough  family  —  Sir 
Agamemnon  Churchill  himself,  was  coming,  in 
his  own  august  person,  to  grace  our  wedding 
feast,  and  give  the  bride  away ! 

And  all  this  time  Hugh  Farquhar  came  and 
went  as  he  pleased,  and  became  our  frequent 
guest.  He  talked  politics  and  the  wars  of  Queen 
Anne  with  my  father.  He  was  gallant  to  Mrs. 
Churchill.  He  was  polite  and  stately  with  the 
Count.  Sometimes  I  fancied  that  he  knew  how 
his  friendship  had  led  them  to  be  kinder  to  me 
— at  all  events  I  heard  no  more  about  St.  Peters- 
burgh  ! 

— ^ — 

CHAPTER  XXXII. 

IN   THE   FOREST   OP   VINCENNE3. 

It  was  the  morning  of  Hilda's  wedding  day. 
The  bride  was  dressed ;  the  carriages  were  at 
the  door ;  the  guests  were  assembled ;  and  we 
only  waited  for  Sir  Agamemnon  Churchill. 
A  messenger  from  Meurice's  had  brought  word 
of  his  arrival  late  the  night  before ;  and  as  it 
had  been  arranged  that  Hilda  was  not  to  make 
her  appearance  till  "he  came,  she  and  I  remained 
up-stairs  listening  to  the  echo  of  every  passing 
wheel.  Now  and  then  one  of  the  bridesmaids 
came  up,  or  we  heard  my  father's  impatient 
voice  upon  the  landing ;  and  still  we  waited,  and 
still  the  great  man  of  the  family  kept  us  in  sus- 
pense. 

Hilda  looked  ill  and  agitated ;  but  haughtily 


beautiful  as  ever.  She  had  scarcely  slept  at  all 
the  night  before.  I  had  heard  her  in  her  room, 
and  seen  the  light  under  her  door  long  hours 
after  midnight ;  but  deterred  by  her  coldness, 
had  not  ventured  to  intrude  on  her  privacy. 

Now,  white  and  silent,  with  her  hands  locked 
fast  together,  she  stood  before  the  glass,  seem- 
ing to  lool^  at  her  own  image,  but  seeing  only 
vacancy.  Thus  the  last  anxious  quarter  of  an 
hour  ebbed  slowly  away ;  and  then,  at  the  very 
moment  when  to  have  delayed  longer  would 
have  been  impossible,  a  carriage  dashed  up  to 
the  door,  and  a  servant  came  running  breath- 
lessly to  tell  us  that  "Sir  Agamemnon  was 
come  !" 

Finding  my  sister  still  unmoved,  I  went  over 
and  repeated  the  message. 

"  Sir  Agamemnon  is  here,"  I  said.  "  We 
must  go  down," 

She  started,  and,  as  it  were  mechanically, 
took  her  gloves  and  bouquet  from  the  table. 

"  And  it  is  very  late,"  I  added. 

"  Late  indeed,"  she  echoed,  drearily.  *'  Too 
late !"  and  moved  toward  the  door.  At  the 
threshold  she  paused,  stooped  forward  all  at 
once,  and  kissed  me. 

"  Sister,"  she  said,  hurriedly,  "  forgive  me  ! 
I  have  not  been  kind ;  but  my  life  has  been  a 
hell  this  past  "week  !  I  have  hated  myself  and 
all  the  world  !" 

"  Oh,  Hilda  1"      . 

"  Yes — I  see  it  all  now ;  but  it  is  too  late — 
too  late  !  Your  future  is  bright,  Barbara,  You 
love  each  other — you  will  be  very  happy.  My 
future  is  dark  enough — God  help  me  !" 

And  with  this  she  drew  her  vail  about  her 
face,  and  went  down-stairs. 

I  followed  her,  with  her  last  words  echoing  in 
my  ears,  and  my  heart  beating  painfully.  The 
first  face  I  saw  as  I  went  into  the  room  was  Mr. 
Farquhar's.  He  was  standing  just  inside  the 
door,  and,  as  I  came  in,  put  out  both  his  hands, 
and  smiled  joyously. 

"  Eccold,  .^"  he  said,  surveying  me  from  head 
to  foot.  "Why,  what  a  dainty,  coquettish, 
charming  little  Barbara  it  is  to-day  !  Quite  a 
dangerous  Barbara,  I  vow  !  But  why  so  pale 
and  nervous,  petite  ?  Your  hands  tremble — you 
are  not  well !     Is  any  thing  wrong  ?" 

I  shook  my  head — I  dared  not  look  at  him, 
remembering  the  words  that  Hilda  had  just 
spoken. 

"  Nothing  is  wrong,"  I  said,  and  turned  hastily 
away — too  hastily  as  I  fancied  ;  for  when  I  had 
threaded  my  way  half-across  the  room,  I  turned, 
and  saw^  him  following  me  with  his  eyes,  so 
gravely,  so  inquiringly,  that  had  I  known  how 
to  say  it,  I  should  have  gone  back  and  asked 
his  pardon.  As  it  was,  our  eyes  met  just  as  my 
father  took  me  by  the  hand  and  said : 

"  My  second  daughter,  Sir  Agamemnon.  Bar- 
bara, make  Sir  Agamemnon  Churchill  welcome 
to  Paris." 

A  shrunken,  under-sized,  dissipated-looking 
old  beau  of  the  Prince  Regent  type,  was  my  illus- 
trious kinsman ;  with  little,  bold,  bloodshot  eyes, 
and  a  flushed  face,  and  a  withered  double  chin 
buried  behind  a  huge  white  satin  cravat  sprig- 
ged with  gold  He  had  been  a  '  ladies'  man,'  a 
'  buck,'  and  a  leader  of  the  '  ton,'  some  five  and 
forty  years  ago;  and  now,  wigged,  laced,  pad- 
ded, scented,   dyed,  and  'used-up,'  he  clung 


92 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


fondly  to  the  traditions  of  his  youth  and  his 
'-  bonnes  fortunes.'  Ho  tied  his  neckcloth  in  the 
Brummel  bow,  and  wore  three  inside  waistcoats 
and  a  mulberry  coat  with  a  velvet  collar  as  high 
as  his  ears.  In  short,  he  looked  as  if  he  might 
just  have  stepped  out  from  the  Pavilion  at  Brigh- 
ton, or  liave  come  straight  from  a  breakfast  at 
Carlton  House ! 

Courtesying,  I  murmured  something,  I  scarce- 
ly know  what ;  but  he  interrupted  me  by  kissing 
first  my  hand,  and  then  my  cheek,  and  protest- 
ing that  he  was  " devilish  glad"  to  see  me,  and 
that  "  a  fellow  might  be  devilish  proud  of  two 
such  pretty  cousins — begad  !" 

One  wedding  is  just  like  another,  and  the  only 
respect  in  which  this  differed  from  most  lay  in 
the  fact  that  it  was  celebrated  in  two  churches, 
in  two  languages,  and  in  two  religions.  Nobody 
shed  tears,  for  we  were  late  and  had  no  time  for 
sentiment.  As  it  was,  we  dashed  through  the 
streets  at  a  pace  better  becoming  an  elopement 
than  a  wedding,  and  overturned  a  flower-stall  at 
the  corner  of  the  Place  de  la  Madeleine.  Then 
the  bride  and  bridegroom  drove  back  alone 
in  the  Count's  carriage,  and  we,  having  quite 
lost  the  order  of  going,  followed  as  we  pleased, 
taking  whatever  vehicles  and  companions  we 
could  get.  Thus  it  happened  that  Mr.  Farqu- 
har  found  his  way  to  the  bridesmaids'  carriage, 
and  came  back  in  the  seat  beside  my  own. 

Then  came  the  congratulations,  the  break- 
fast, the  champagne,  and  the  speeches  —  most 
notable  of  all,  that  speech  of  Sir  Agamemnon 
Churchill's,  in  which  he  brought  a  very  rambling 
oration  to  a  close  by  saying  that  he  had  that 
morning  performed  the  most  disagreeable  task 
he  had  ever  undertaken  in  his  life  : — 

"  For,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  he,  looking 
round  to  enjoy  the  surprise  with  which  this  ob- 
servation was  received,  and  nursing  his  final 
joke  till  the  last  moment,  "  when  I  came  to  give 
tlie  bride  away,  begad !  I  was  devilish  sorry  I 
couldn't  keep  her  myself!" 

Which  delicate  and  ingenious  witticism  was 
greeted  with  immense  applause  (as  well  by  the 
foreigners  who  didn't  understand  it,  as  by  the 
English  who  did)  and  covered  Sir  Agamemnon 
with  glory. 

Then  the  Count  de  Chaumont,  in  three  or  four 
very  brief  and  solemn  sentences,  returned  thanks 
for  himself  and  his  bride  ;  and  then,  my  father, 
with  a  great  deal  of  self-possession  and  dignity, 
made  a  speech  full  of  point  and  emphasis,  which 
threw  all  the  rest  into  the  shade,  and  produced 
the  great  effect  of  the  day.  After  this  the  ladies 
withdrew,  and  Hilda  went  up  to  change  her  dress 
for  the  journey. 

Her  pallor,  her  agitation,  her  despair,  were  all 
gone  now ;  but  her  cheek  was  flushed,  and  her 
eye  strangely  bright  and  restless.  In  vain  I 
looked  for  any  trace  of  the  emotion  which  had 
so  startled  me  a  few  hours  back.  Not  a  glance, 
not  a  tone,  betrayed  that  she  even  remembered 
it.  Thus  she  dressed  and  went  down  in  all  the 
splendor  of  her  proud  beauty.  Thus  she  em- 
braced us,  was  handed  into  her  carriage  by  the 
husband  of  her  choice,  and  drove  away.  The 
game  was  played  out.  The  stakes  were  won. 
She  was  Madame  la  Comtesse  de  Chaumont ! 

After  this,  the  guests  mostly  dispersed  —  some 
to  their  avocations,  and  some  to  amuse  them- 
selves, till  it  became  time  to  dress  for  the  even- 


ing party.  My  fiither  and  Sir  Agamemnon,  and 
three  or  four  of  the  elder  men,  chiefly  members 
of  ray  father's  club,  went  out  to  play  at  billiards 
or  stroll  in  the  Champ  Elysees.  Mrs.  Churchill, 
whose  delicate  nervous  system  was  supposed  to 
be  overwrought  by  the  morning's  excitement, 
retired  to  her  room,  and  had  a  sound  sleep  on 
the  sofa ;  whilst  we  three  bridesmaids,  Hugh 
Farquhar,  a  pretty  widow  named  Julie  de  Lune- 
ville,  the  Count  de  Chariot,  Monsieur  deFauval, 
and  some  three  or  four  other  young  men,  all  of 
whom  were  frequent  guests  at  Mrs.  Churchill's 
receptions,  drove  over  to  Vincennes.  When  we 
reached  the  forest,  we  left  our  vehicles  at  a  cer- 
tain spot,  and  alighted.  It  was  now  between 
three  and  four  o'clock,  and  the  slanting  light 
came  goldenly  through  the  trees,  and  lay  in  broad 
patches  on  the  open  glades.  The  place  was  very 
quiet  and  lovely,  and  we  sat  on  the  fragrant 
grass  under  the  shade  of  oaks  as  old  as  the  far- 
away toAvers  of  Notre  Dame.  Here  the  young 
men  lit  their  cigars,  and  the  ladies  took  off  their 
bonnets ;  and  some  flirted,  and  some  ate  bonbons, 
and  we  were  all  as  sociable  as  if  Ave  had  known 
each  other  from  childhood.  As  for  Hugh  Far- 
quhar, I  had  never  before  seen  him  give  such 
play  to  his  exiiberant  animal  spirits.  He  jested ; 
told  stories ;  talked  as  readily  in  French  as  in 
English,  and  in  German  as  in  either  ;  and  was 
the  very  life  of  the  party.  Buoyant,  almost 
boyish,  in  his  gayety,  he  seemed  as  if  he  had 
that  morning  drunk  of  the  Elixir  of  Life. 

My  recollection  of  the  general  conversation  as 
we  sat  there  on  the  grass,  like  a  group  by  Wat- 
teau,  is  now  somewhat  confused  and  fragment- 
ary ;  but  Ave  had  been  talking,  I  think,  of  park 
and  forest  scenery,  and  Hugh  had  been  telling 
us  something  of  his  Avild  Avanderings  in  South- 
America. 

"  It  always  seems  to  me,"  said  he,  as  he  lay 
reclining  on  his  elboAv,  "  that  a  forest  is  a  school 
of  etiquette,  and  that  nothing  could  be  more 
natural  than  for  Hazlitt  to  take  off  his  hat  to  a 
certain  majestic  oak  whenever  he  passed  it,  as 
he  tells  us  somcAvhere  in  his  Essays.  See  the 
great  elms,  how  polite  they  are  !  How  they  bow 
their  plumed  heads,  and  stretch  out  their  stately 
arms  to  one  another  !  For  my  part,  I  never 
enter  a  forest  Avithout  feeling  at  once  that  I  am 
moving  in  the  best  society." 

They  smiled  at  this  ;  and  -some  one  observed 
that  "  it  Avas  a  pity  the  trees  limited  their  court- 
esies to  their  OAvn  circles." 

"  How  agreeable  it  would  be,  for  instance," 
said  Monsieur  de  Fauval,  a  dramatic  author  and 
feuilleto7iiste,  "  if  some  of  the  more  hospitable 
among  our  present  hosts  would  unpack  their 
trunks  just  noAv,  and  oblige  us  with  a  fcAv  ices 
and  a  dozen  cups  of  coffee  !" 

"  Or  if  the  woodpecker  AA-ould  make  himself 
useful,  and  tap  us  some  good  old  Burgundy  from 
his  '  hollow  beech  tree !'  "  added  Hugh.  "  But 
whom  have  we  here  ?  A  Jongleur  of  the  olden 
time  ?" 

"  Say,  rather,  an  Orpheus  of  shreds  and 
patches  1" 

It  Avas  a  Avandering  musician,  with  a  guitar 
slung  over  his  shoulder.  Seeing  our  carriages 
before  the  gates,  he  had  sought  us  out  through 
the  pathAvays  of  the  forest.  Timidly,  he  took 
off  his  battered  cap,  and  passed  his  fingers  over 
the  strings  of  his  instrument. 


[ 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


93 


"  Chantez  done  /"  said  one  of  the  young  men, 
tossing  him  a  franc  for  encouragement. 

He  looked  up,  bowed,  preluded  a  few  chords, 
and  sang,  with  a  slightly  foreign  accent,  three 
or  four  verses  of  a  plaintive  ballad,  the  refram 
of  which  was  always  — 

"  File,  file,  pauvre  Marie, 
Pour  secourir  le  prisonnier  ; 
File,  file,  pauvre  Marie, 
File,  file,  pour  le  prisonnier  !" 

The  guitar  was  cracked;  but  the  song  had 
truth  of  feeling,  and.  the  singer,  voice  and  senti- 
ment.    After  he  had  finished,  we  were  silent. 

Then  somebody  signed  to  him  to  continue,  and 
he  sang  a  little  rhyming  Biscayan  romance  about 
a  fisherman  and  a  phantom  ship  —  a  mere  story 
to  a  fragmentary  chant ;  but  wild  as  the  winds, 
and  melancholy  as  the  moaning  of  the  sea. 

When  he  had  done,  Mr.  Farquhar  becjitoned 
to  him  to  come  nearer. 

"  Your  music  is  of  the  saddest,  friend,"  said 
he.     "  Can  you  sing  nothing  gay  ?" 

The  man  shook  his  head. 

"  Monsieur,"  he  replied,  "  Je  ne  suis  pas  gaV 

The  answer  provoked  our  curiosity,  and  we 
urged  him  to  tell  us  his  history ;  but  we  urged 
in  vain. 

"I  have  nothing  to -tell,"  he  said.  "I  am 
poor,  and  a  wanderer." 

"  But  are  you  French  ?"  asked  one. 

"  I  do  not  come  from  these  parts,"  he  rephed, 
equivocally.  "  Bonjour,  Messieurs  et  Mesdamesy 

He  was  going  ;  but  Mr.  Farquhar  stopped  him. 

"  Stay,  man  ami^'  said  he.  "  I  have  a  fancy 
to  try  your  guitar." 

The  musician  unslung  and  handed  it  to  him, 
with  an  apologetic  shrug. 

"  It  is  not  good,"  he  remonstrated  humbly.  _ 

"  Nay,  it  has  seen  honorable  service,"  said 
Hugh,  "and  has  been  excellent.  It  was  made, 
I  see,  in  Naples." 

The  man.  looked  down,  and  made  no  reply. 

"  Sing  something,  Mr.  Farquhar  !"  cried  three 
or  four  together. 

He  smiled,  and  ran  his  fingers  over  the  strings 
with  a  touch  that  evoked  more  tone  than  one 
could  have  expected  from  so  poor  an  instrument. 

"  What  shall  I  sing  ?"  said  he. 

Some  asked  for  one  thing  ;  some  for  another. 
I  who  had  never  dreamt  till  this  moment  that  he 
had  any  musical  knowledge,  remained  silent. 


Eh  hi 


he  exclaimed.     "  I  will  give  you 


a  Spanish  hallata  —  something  very  savage 
about  a  bull-fight.  It  is  supposed  to  be  sung  by 
a  girl  who  is  sitting  among  the  spectators,  and 
whose  lover  is  a  matador  in  the  arena.  You 
will  hear  how  she  cries  to  him  to  kill  the  bull, 
'■par  Vanior  de  Dios  .''  " 

And  with  this  he  struck  the  strings  with  the 
side  of  his  hand,  producing  a  strange  barbaric 
jangle,  and  broke  out  into  the  wildest  rush  of 
words  and  notes  that  I  had  ever  heard  in  my 
life.  Well  might  he  call  it  "  something  savage !" 
It  made  my  heart  throb,  and  my  blood  run  cold, 
and,  which  is  more,  produced  some  such  effect 
on  the  rest ;  for,  when  it  was  over,  we  looked 
in  each  other's  faces,  and  drew  a  long  breath  of 
relief. 

"  Mais^  man  Dieu  !  Monsieur  Farquhar,"  said 
Madame  de  Luneville,  "  do  you  wish  us  all  to  be 
afraid  of  you  ?  Where,  in  Heaven's  mme.  did 
^'ou  learn  that  diabolical  song  ?" 


"  In  Madrid,"  replied  he,  laughingly,  "  where 
it  is  as  popular  in  the  most  refined  salons  as  in 
the  lowest  posadas.  My  teacher  was  an  Anda- 
lusian  water-carrier,  who,  after  plying  his  trade 
all  day  long  in  the  Puerta  del  Sol,  used  '  to  sing 
songs  o'  nights,'  sitting  on  the  steps  of  a  public 
fountain,  and  surrounded  by  all  the  ragamuflans 
of  the  quarter." 

"How  picturesque !"  I  exclaimed ;  for  the 
whole  group  came  at  once  before  my  eyes. 

"  Yes ;  it  was  an  animated  Murillo.  But, 
since  I  have  shocked  you  with  my  savage  per- 
formance, I  will  soothe  you  with  something 
sweet  and  sentimental." 

Whereupon  he  modulated  through  a  succession 
of  keys,  and,  to  a  soft  arpeggio  accompaniment, 
sang,  "with  infinite  tenderness  and  passion,  the 
following 

SERENADE.* 

"  Tlie  winds  are  all  hushed,  and  tlie  moon  is  high. 
Like  a  queen  on  her  silver  throne  ! 

Tranquil  and  dusk  the  woodlands  lie  ; 

Scarcely  a  cloud  sails  over  the  sky  ; 

None  are  awake,  save  the  stars  and  I — 
Sleepest  thou  still,  mine  own  ? 

"  The  song  of  the  nightingale  stirs  the  air, 
And  the  breath  of  the  brier  is  blown  ! 

Come  forth  in  thy  beauty  beyond  compare ; 

I'll  clasp  thee  close,  and  I'll  call  thee  fair ; 

And  I'll  kiss  off  the  dew  from  thy  golden  hair— 
Sleepest  thou  still,  mine  own  ?" 

Again  there  was  a  long-drawn  breath  when  he 
had  ended,  but  this  time  it  was  a  breath  of  ap- 
probation. Monsieur  de  Fauval  was  the  first  to 
speak. 

" That  song,"  said  he,  "breathes  the  very 
soul  of  passion.  Whose  is  it  ?  Where  can  it 
be  purchased  ?" 

"It  can  not  be  purchased  at  all,"  replied 
Hugh,  smiling.  "It  is  an  unpublished  manu- 
script." 

"  And  the  author  ?" 

"Unknown." 

"  Unknown  !"  repeated  Madame  de  Luneville. 
"  But  you  are  in  the  secret  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  am,  or  else  how  should  I  have 
known  it  ?  But  enough  of  al  fresco  music. 
The  grass  is  already  getting  damp,  and  we  must 
not  suffer  these  ladies  to  ta.ke  cold.  Many 
thanks,  friend,  for  the  use  of  your  instrument." 

And  with  this  he  returned  the  guitar  to  its 
owner,  and  took  out  a  handful  of  loose  silver. 

The  musician  drew  back. 

"  Thanks,  Monsieur,"  he  said.  "  I  am  already 
sufficiently  paid." 

"  Nay — for  the  loan  of  the  guitar." 

The  stranger  drew  himself  up,  and  with  a 
gesture  full  of  dignity,  again  refused. 

"  My  guitar,"  said  he,  "  is  not  only  mjgagne- 
pain ;  but  my  friend.  Monsieur  did  me  the 
honor  to  borrow  it." 

Hugh  rose  from  his  half-recumbent  attitude. 

"  In  that  case,"  he  said,  courteously,  "  I  wish 
you  hon  voyaged 

The  stranger  murmured  something  of  which 
we  lost  the  purport ;  and,  with  one  low,  com- 
prehensive bow,  slung  his  guitar  once  more 
across  his  back,  and  turned  away.  At  the  bend 
of  the  path,  he  paused,  looked  back  and  then 
disappeared  among  the  trees. 

"  There  is  something  odd  about  that  man  !" 

*  The  words  of  this  song  are  copy-right,  and  have  been 
set  to  music  by  Mr.  J.  F.  Duggan. 


% 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


said  the  Count  dc  Chariot.     "  I  would  give  a 
hundred  francs  to  know  his  story." 

"  If  you  gave  a  thousand,  he  would  not  tell 
it,"  said  De  Fauval.  "I  believe  that  he  is  an 
escaped  convict  from  Toulon  or  Brest." 

*'  And  I,  that  he  is  a  political  exile,"  said 
Madame  de  Luneville. 

"  He  certainly  is  not  a  Frenchman,"  observed 
another.  "  Did  you  notice  how  he  evaded  the 
question,  when  he  was  asked  his  country  ?" 

"  Yes — and  how  silent  he  was  when  Mr.  Far- 
quhar  examined  his  guitar !" 

"  Poor  fellow  !"  said -Hugh.  "  He  is  no  com- 
mon adventurer ;  and  by  his  accent,  I  should 
say  he  is  Italian.  He  refused  my  little  oholu>^ 
with  an  almost  Roman  dignity.  But  what  is 
your  opinion,  Barbarina  ?" 

"  Indeed  I  scarcely  know,"  I  replied.  "  The 
expression  of  his  eyes  struck  me  painfully.  I 
feel  sorry  for  him,  and — but  you  will  laugh  at 
me,  if  I  tell  you  that !" 

"  N^o — I  promise  not  to  laugh.     Pray  tell  me." 

"  Well,  then,  I  feel  as  if — as  if  the  sight  of 
him  were  unlucky — as  if — I  scarcely  know  what 
I  mean,  or  how  to  say  it ;  but  as  if  he  brought 
some  shadow  of  trouble  with  him !  Bo  you 
understand  me  ?" 

"  Perfectly ;  and  think  I  can  account  for  it, 
too.  We  were  very  gay  when  he  came  and 
sobered  us.  Those  sobering  processes  are  not 
pleasant.  The  time  has  gone  by  when  a  skele- 
ton was  looked  upon  as  an  agreeable  addition  to 
a  dinner-party.  But  we  may  as  well  talk  of 
something  more  agreeable!" 

He  had  given  me  his  arm,  and  we  were  now 
strolling,  two  and  two,  in  the  direction  of  the 
gates.  ]3eing  somewhat  in  the  rear  of  the  rest, 
we  had  our  conversation  quite  to  ourselves,  and 
could  chat  Avithout  reserve. 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  I  replied,  smiling. 
"  Of  your  singing  for  instance.  I  never  knew 
that  you  were  a  musician  before ;  and  still  less 
that  you  were  a  poet !" 

"  A  poet !"  he  repeated.  "  What  do  you 
mean  ?" 

"  Simply  that  your  unknown  author,  Mr.  Far- 
quhar,  has  no  incognito  for  me.  That  Serenade 
is  yours." 

"  In  the  name  of  St.  Ursula  and  her  eleven 
thousand  virgins !  how  could  you  tell  that  ?" 

"  Nay,  I  am  not  wise  enough  to  analyze  my 
impressions  !  I  only  know  that  I  recognized 
you  in  the  verses — should  have  even  known 
them  to  be  yours,  had  any  other  person  read  or 
sung  them  to  me." 

He  came  to  a  sudden  halt,  and  laid  his  hand 
heavily  upon  my  shoulder. 

"  Barbara,"  he  said,  in  a  low  vibrating  tone, 
scarce  louder  than  a  Avhisper.  "  What  can  you 
recognize  of  the  Ego  in  that  song  ?  What  ex- 
perience have  you  of  any  power  of  passion  that 
may  be  in  me  ?  You  neither  know  how  I  can 
love,  nor  how  I  can  hate.  I  am  a  sealed  book  to 
you." 

Was  he  a  sealed  book  to  me  ?  I  began  to 
doubt  it. 

''''  You  are  silent,"  he  said,  and  I  felt  that  he 
was  looking  at  me.  "  You  are  silent ;  and  I  dare 
not  interpret  that  silence,  lest  I  deceive  myself. 
Is  it  possible  that  you  know  me  too  well  ?  Is  it 
possible  that  your  eyes  have  read  that  page 
which  I  had  vowed  they  should  never  read, 


though  to  blot  it  out  were  to  erase  the  fairest  pas- 
sage from  my  life  ?  Speak  child  ;  for  I  must 
know  !' 

"  I — I  have  read  nothing — I  know  nothing," 
I  stammered.  "I  never  wish  to  know  any  thing 
that  you  do  not  choose  to  tell  me  !  Pray  do  not 
be  angry  with  me,  Mr.  Farquhar !" 

"  Angry !"  he  echoed.    "  Angry,  my  darling?" 

His  voice,  as  he  spoke  these  words,  took  an 
accent  so  sweet  and  tender  that  I  looked  up  and 
smiled  involuntarily,  like  a  child  forgiven. 

He  passed  liis  arm  about  my  waist,  and  drew 
me  gently  toward  him. 

"  We  have  misunderstood  each  other,  Barbara 
mia,"  he  said,  soothingly.  "Nothing  was  far- 
ther from  my  mood,  heaven  knows  !  than  to 
pain  or  terrify  you.  It  was  not  anger,  but —but, 
child,  can  you  not  understand  that  there  might 
be  something — something  written  down  in  that 
same  book  of  my  soul,  which  I  would  not  place 
before  you  for  a  kingdom;  and  yet — if  you 
guessed  it Am  I  talking  enigmas  ?" 

Saying  this,  he  held  me  still  more  closely,  and 
looked  down  into  my  eyes  with  such  a  burning 
light  in  his  that  I  could"not  meet  them. 

"  I — yes — you  bewilder  me,"  I  faltered.  "  See 
— we  are  left  quite  behind  !     Let  us  go  on." 

"  Yes,  let  us  go  on,"  he  repeated ;  but,  instead 
of  going  on,  bent  down,  and  pressed  his  lips 
upon  my  forehead. 

For  a  moment  I  rested  in  his  arms,  willingly, 
wearily,  and  allowed  my  eyes  to  close,  and  my 
check  to  lean  against  the  beatings  of  his  heart 
Only  for  a  moment ;  and  yet  in  that  moment,  the 
sense  of  the  mystery  grew  clear  to  me,  and  life 
began  in  earnest ! 

Then  he  suffered  me  to  disengage  myself  from 
his  embrace,  and  we  went  on  our  way  without 
another  word. 

The  rest  of  that  walk,  the  drive  back  to  Paris, 
the  ball  that  followed  in  the  evening,  all  passed 
over  me  like  a  dream.  I  remember  nothing  of 
the  incident,  nothing  of  the  conversations  that 
took  place.  I  only  know  that  he  was  there  ;  that 
he  danced  with  me ;  that  he  looked  at  me  ;  that 
he  held  my  hand  many  times  in  his  ;  and  that 
once  during  the  evening  he  praised  my  looks, 
and  the  fashion  of  my  hair,  and  told  me  I  was 
like  some  picture  of  Jephtha's  daughter  that  he 
had  seen  abroad.  And  then,  when  it  was  all 
over,  and  the  guests  were  gone,  and  I  had  gained 
the  solitude  of  my  own  room,  I  was  happy — so 
happy,  that  I  threw  open  my  window  and  leaned 
out  into  the  cool  night,  and  wept  for  joy  ! 

And  then  I  thought  of  Hilda,  and  my  heart 
bled  for  her.  I  had  pitied  her  in  the  morning ; 
but  I  now  pitied  her  far  more.  A  whole  world 
of  feeling  had  been  revealed  to  me  since  then. 
I  had  passed  in  a  few  hours  from  childhood  to 
womanhood ;  and  now,  measuring  her  loss  by 
my  sweet  gain,  shuddered  at  the  life  to  which 
she  had  condemned  herself. 

And  all  this  time  I  never  paused  to  reason  on 
my  own  feelings  or  my  possible  future.  I  never 
once  asked  myself  "  what  next  ?"  or  wondered  at 
aught  that  had  hitherto  been  ambiguous  and 
strange  in  the  tenor  of  our  intercourse.  It  was 
enough  happiness  to  love  and  be  loved — and 
enough  knowledge,  also  ! 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


95 


CHAPTER    XXXIII. 

THE    NEXT     MORNI  NO. 

Mr.  Farquhar  called  the  next  morning,  about 
noon.  My  father  had  gone  to  see  Sir  Agamem- 
non off  by  the  midday  train,  and  Mrs.  Churchill 
was  reclining  on  a  sofa,  aljsorbed  in  a  novel  by 
George  Sand.  When  our  visitor  came  in,  she 
lai4  her  book  aside,  welcomed  him  graciously, 
and  assigned  him  a  seat  beside  her  sofa.  To  me 
he  gave  only  a  glance,  and  a  pressure  of  the 
hand. 

First  they  talked  of  the  wedding,  the  ball,  the 
belles  toilettes,  and  such  other  matters.  Then  the 
conversation  fell  upon  Norway,  and  they  traced 
out  Hilda's  route  upon  the  map,  and  calculated 
the  probable  whereabouts  of  the  bridal  pair  at 
that  present  moment.  In  all  this  I  took  no  part, 
but  sat  by  silently,  content  to  listen  to  his  vpice. 
I  had  been  sketching  a  little  subject  in  Mrs. 
Churchill's  album,  and  I  endeavored  still  to  seem 
occupied  upon  it ;  but  my  hand  grew  unsteady, 
and  my  attention  wandered.  By  and  by  Mrs. 
Churchill  left  the  room  on  some  trivial  pretext, 
smiling  as  she  passed  me ;  and  I  suddenly  re- 
membered that  she  had  done  the  same  thing 
once  or  twice  before.  The  blood  rushed  to  my 
face,  and,  half  in  shame  and  half  in  anger,  I  rose 
to  follow  her. 

He  was  at  my  side  in  an  instant. 

"  Whither  away,  my  child  ?"  he  said.  "  Are 
you  afraid  of  me  to-day  ?" 

I  murmured  something  unintelligible  —  I 
scarcely  know  what — but  passively  resumed  my 
seat.  He  stooped  over  the  back  of  the  chair, 
and  looked  at  my  half-finished  sketch. 

"  What  have  we  ,here  ?"  he  exclaimed.  "A 
fountain  and  a  group  of  beggars — one  stalwart 
figure  high  above  the  rest — a  mandolin  in  his 

hand — a  pair  of  buckets  at  his  feet Fer  Bac- 

co  !  'tis  my  Andalusian  water-carrier  of  the  Pu- 
erta  del  Sol !     Whose  album  is  this  ?" 

"  Mrs.  Churchill's." 

"  Then  Mrs.  Churchill  must  resign  the  water- 
carrier  in  my  fiivor.  Nonsense,  child  !  I  have 
half  a  right  to  him  already.  He  is  the  creature 
of  my  experience." 

"  But  he  is  also  the  creature  of  my  imagina- 
tion," I  remonstrated,  seeing  him  take  his  pen- 
knife from  his  pocket ;  "  and  as  such  I  have  al- 
ready given  him  away." 

"  A  reason  the  more  why  I  should  have  him ! 
I  mean  to  take  possession  of  your  imagination, 
your  heart,  your  past,  your  future,  and  all  that 
is  yours !  So  !  when  Madame  la  belle  mere  comes 
to  examine  her  album,  she  will  wonder  what  con- 
jurer has  been  at  work  upon  it." 

And  with  this  he  very  deliberately  and  dex- 
terously cut  the  page  away,  and  put  the  drawing 
in  his  pocket-book. 

"Indeed,  Mr.  Farquhar,"  I  said  reproachfully, 
"  this  is  not  fair.  What  shall  I  say  to  Mrs. 
Churchill  ?" 

"Nothing  whatever.  I  engage  to  make  it 
right  with  her  myself.  You  look  tired,  Barbara 
mia  r 

"  I  am  tired,"  I  replied.     "  I  have  been  out 
with  Mrs.  Churchill  all  the  morning." 
"  And  slept  too  little  last  night !" 
"  Nay,  it  was  not  a  very  late  party.    They  were 
all  gone  by  one  o'clock." 


"True;  but  you  were  not  in  bed  till  after 
three." 

"  How  should  you  know  ?"  I  exclaimed,  start- 
led into  involuntary  confession. 

"  Ah,  that  is  my  secret.     Guess  it  if  you  can." 

"How  should  I  guess  it,  unless  you  possess  a 
magic  mirror,  or  Doctor  Dee's  crystal,  or  travel 
over  Paris  at  night,  like  the  Devil  on  two  Sticks !" 

"  Neither  of  the  three,  carina.  What  will 
you  give  me  if  I  tell  you  ?" 

I  smiled,  and  shook  my  head.  I  was  pain- 
fully nervous  ;  and,  strive  as  I  would,  could  not 
control  the  changing  of  my  color,  or  the  trem- 
bling of  my  hand. 

"  Will  you  give  me  this  curl  of  brown  hair  ?" 

"  No ;  for  it  is  the  most  unlucky  of  gifts." 

"  My  child,  you  are  superstitious.  However, 
I  am  not  difficult.  Give  me  this  little  golden 
cross  from  round  your  neck,  and  I  will  promise 
to  kneel  to  it  every  night  before  I  sleep,  and 
every  morning  when  I  rise,  like  the  best  of 
Catholics  !" 

"No,  for  the  cross  was  Ida's,  and  I  have 
promised  to  keep  it  for  her  sake.  Besides,  you 
should  kneel  to  better  purpose." 

"  Ay — to  yourself.  Well,  give  me  yourself, 
and  I  will  lie  forever  at  your  feet  I" 

"  Tell  me  without  asking  to  be  paid  at  all," 
I  stammered.  "It  would  be  far  more  gen- 
erous." 

"  But  I  am  not  generous  !  I  am  jealous,  ex- 
orbitant, insatiable — a  very  Shylock  at  a  bar- 
gain !  Well,  well,  Barbarina,  since  you  are  so 
hopelessly  mean,  give  me  what  you  will ;  or  give 
me  nothing.     I  will  tell  you  all  the  same !" 

"  I  have  already  given  you  the  sketch,  Mr. 
Farquhar." 

"  Given  me  the  sketch  !  Hear  that,  oh  Gods 
of  Olympus !  Why,  you  have  no  conscience, 
Barbara,  if  you  call  that  a  gift !  I  stole  it — 
'tis  '  the  captive  of  my  bow  and  spear,'  and  I 
owe  you  no  thanks  in  the  matter.  Come,  I  Avill 
make  you  a  present  of  my  information,  and 
leave  you  to  reward  me  as  you  will.  I  know 
that  you  were  not  asleep  till  three  <3'clock  this 
morning,  because  it  was  not  till  three  o'clock 
that  you  extinguished  your  candle.  Now,  if  you 
want  to  be  told  whence  I  obtained  that  know- 
ledge, we  will  begin  bargaining  over  again !" 

"  Indeed,  we  will  do  no  such  thing.  I  be- 
lieve it  is  but  a  chance  guess,  after  all !" 

"  A  chance  guess  !  Alas  !  shall  I  confess  to  a 
piece  of  arrant  folly  ?" 

"  Nay,  I  am  not  your  father  confessor." 

"  No  matter  —  supposing  now  —  supposing 
that  I,  '  potent,  grave,  and  reverend  signor '  as 
I  am,  had  actually  been  romantic  enough  to 
linger  last  night,  like  Romeo,  in  the  shade  of 
yonder  trees,  watching  that  little  taper  light  of 
yours  for  two  mortal  hours — what  then  ?" 

What  then,  indeed  !  I  felt  my  lip  quiver, 
and  dared  not  trust  my  voice  with  words  !  The 
whole  tone  of  this  conversation,  half  jesting, 
half  passionate,  was  inexpressibly  trying.  I 
felt  as  if  I  would  have  given  the  world  to 
escape. 

All  at  once  he  rose,  and  stood  before  me. 
"Little  Barbara,"  he  said,  earnestly,  "let  us 
trifle  no  more.  I  am  a  conceited  monster  — 
granted.  And  I  am  as  unworthy  as  I  am  con- 
ceited— granted  again.  But,  when  I  saw  that 
light  burning  in  vour  window  —  when  once  I 


96 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


even  fiincicd  that  I  saw  the  very  flutter  of  your 
drapery — I  had  the  vanity,  the  stupid,  ignorant 
vanity,  to  believe  that  you  were  wakeful  for  my 
sake — just  as  I  was  wakeful  for  yours.  I  was 
wrong.  I  know  I  was  wrong — and  yet  I  shall 
not  be  quite  at  rest  until  I  have  my  answer  from 
yourself.  Give  it  to  me  in  a  single  word,  a 
single  look,  and  let  me  go  I" 

I  felt  my  color  rise  and  then  ebb  quite  away ; 
and  still  I  spoke  not.  He  bent  over  me,  lower 
and  lower. 

"  What !  silent,  Barbara  ?  Have  you  no  word 
of  banishment  for  me  ?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

*'  Why  should  I  banish"  you  ?"  I  faltered. 
"  Why  should  I  banish  you,  when  your  pres- 
ence makes  my  happiness  ?" 

With  a  sort  of  wild  sob,  he  fell  down  before 
me,  and  covered  my  hands  with  kisses. 

"  My  darling !  my  darling !"  he  cried,  *'  can 
you  really  love  me  ?" 

"I  have  loved  you,"  I  whispered,  "ever  since 
I  was  a  little  child.  Do  you  remember  our  last 
meeting  in  the  woods  ?" 

"  I  remember  it,"  he  said,  softly. 

"I  have  cherished  the  ring  ever  since.  It 
was  too  big  for  me  then — it  is  too  big  for  me 
still.     Do  you  remember  it?" 

"  Yes,"  he  repeated,  m  the  same  low  tone. 
"I  remember  it." 

We  were  silent  for  some  moments. 

*'  How  much  has  happened,"  I  said,  "  since 
then  !     I  never  thought  to  see  you  again." 

"  And  now  you  really  love  me  ?  You  are 
sure — sure  you  love  me,  Barbara  ?" 

"  Quite  sure,"  I  replied,  laying  my  hand 
timidly  upon  his  brow.  "  Quite  sure,  Hugh — 
and  quite  happy." 

He  shuddered,  and  buried  his  face  in  my  lap. 

"  Happy  !"  he  echoed.  "  Happy  ! — oh,  my 
God !" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  I  faltered.  "Are  t/ou 
not  happy?" 

"I — I  happy?"  he  cried,  hoarsely.  "I  am 
utterly  miserable — I  hate  myself !  Oh,  Bar- 
bara, tell  me  that  you  love  me  no  longer,  and 
let  me  go  !" 

"That  is  the  second  time  that  you  have  bade 
me  send  you  from  me !"  I  said,  becoming  greatly 
agitated.  "  The  second  time  within  a  few  mo- 
ments !  What  do  you  mean  ?  You  are  free 
to  go  —  you  were  free  never  to  have  come ! 
Why  can  not  my  aflfection  make  you  happy  ? 
If  it  be  fault  of  mine,  I  will  amend  it ;  but  do 
not  torture  me  with  vague  fears,  or  tell  me  that 
you  are  miserable.  If  you  love  me,  why  desire 
to  leave  me  ?  If  you  do  not  love  me,  Avhy  come 
here  to  humble  my  pride,  and  wrest  from  me  an 
avowal " 

"  I  do  love  you  !"  he  sobbed.  "  I  love  you 
better  than  earth  or  heaven  I" 

His  anguish  disarmed  me. 

"  Oh,  Hugh,"  I  said,.  "  your  love  is  the  bless- 
ing of  my  life !" 

He  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  turned  upon  me  a 
face  so  haggard  and  disfigured  that  it  seemed 
scarcely  the  same. 

"But  it  is  the  curse — the  curse  of  mine  !"  he 
exclaimed  bitterly,  and,  with  wavering  steps, 
turned  toward  the  door.  About  half-way  he 
paused,  ran  back,  caught  me  in  a  wild  embrace, 
and  was  gone  in  an  instant. 


Terrified,  half-fainting,  sick  at  heart,  I  fol- 
lowed him  to  the  landing,  and  heard  the  echo 
of  the  closing  door  —  theij  sat  down  on  the 
stairs  and  wondered  why  I  could  not  weep,  or 
whether  I  were  dreaming  ? 

"  I  shall  never  see  him  again,"  I  said  to  my- 
self.    "  I  shall  never,  never  see  him  again !" 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

BEFORE     BREAKFAST. 

Three  days  went  by,  and  I  neither  saw  nor 
heard  any  thing  of  him.  I  believed  that  he  was 
gone  forever,  and  so  gave  myself  quite  up  to  a 
passive  despair  which  I  can  not  now  recall  with- 
out a  shudder.  I  seemed  to  live  "  'twixt  asleep 
and  awake,"  and,  on  the  plea  of  some  minor  in- 
disposition, kept  chiefly  in  the  solitude  of  my 
chamber.  There  I  lay  for  hours  at  a  time,  with 
closed  eyes  and  clasped  hands,  scarcely  moving, 
scarcely  breathing,  scarcely  conscious  of  living, 
save  for  the  dull  weight  upon  my  heart,  and 
the  perpetual  throbbing  at  my  temples.  All  my 
thought  was  but  of  the  one  theme  —  he  was 
gone  ! 

I  never  once  asked  myself  whether  he  was 
gone.  I  never  once  hoped  that  he  would  come 
back.     I  simply  said — "  it  is  over." 

On  the  evening  of  the  third  day,  I  made  up 
my  mind  that  I  would  return  to  ZoUenstrasse. 
This  resolution  did  me  good,  and  gave  me  tem- 
porary strength.  I  thought  of  Ida ;  and  I  endea- 
vored to  persuade  myself  that  while  art  and 
friendship  remained  to  me,  all  was  not  wholly 
dark  in  life.  I  did  not  really  believe  in  my  own 
reasoning,  and  I  was  not  really  comforted  by 
it.  Like  all  who  mourn^  I  had  a  conviction 
that  the  present  shadow  must  lie  upon  my  soul 
forever;  but  still  the  mere  contemplation  of 
action  brought  with  it  something  like  the  relief 
of  change.  That  night  I  slept  for  several  hours, 
and  on  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day  rose,  still 
weak  and  pale,  but  resolved  to  carry  out  my 
design,  and  to  acquaint  my  father  of  it  without 
delay. 

"If  I  can  but  start  this  evening  !"  I  kept  re- 
peating to  myself  "If  they  will  but  let  me  go 
without  torturing  me  with  questions !"  The 
questioning  was  all  I  dreaded. 

Having  awoke  early,  and  dressed  with  all  the 
haste  of  this  project  on  my  mind,  I  found  that 
it  yet  wanted  an  hour  and  a  half  to  our  usual 
breakfast  time,  and  that  none  but  the  servants 
were  stirring.  An  unconquerable  restlessness 
had  taken  possession  of  me,  and,  in  my  present 
mood,  inaction  was  no  longer  possible.  What 
was  I  to  do  for  an  hour  and  a  half  ?  The  morn- 
ing was  cool  and  bright,  and  the  trees  rustled 
pleasantly  in  the  breeze.  I  fancied  the  air  would 
brace  my  nerves  for  all  that  was  to  come ;  so  I 
put  on  a  thick  vail,  wrapped  a  shawl  hastily 
about  me,  and  went  out 

I  walked  fast,  and  the  quick  motion  did  me 
good.  I  think  I  went  as  far  as  the  gates  of  the 
Bois ;  but  I  remember  nothing  distinctly,  save 
that  a  detachment  of  troops  came  marching 
past,  with  a  band  playing  merrily  before  tliem, 
and  that  the  music  to  my  sick  ears  sounded  sad- 
der than  a  requiem.  As  I  came  back  to  the 
Round  Point  and  turned  down  the  avenue  in 
which  we  lived,  the  clocks  were  striking  nine. 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


97 


While  I  was  yet  listening  to  their  echoes,  and 
hesitating  whether  to  go  home  or  turn  back 
again,  a  man  rose  from  a  stone  bench  close  at 
hand,  and  called  me  by  name. 

"  Barbara  !"  he  said.    "  I  am  here,  Barbara  !" 

Oh,  the  dear  voice  that  I  had  thought  never 
to  hear  again  !  It  seemed  for  a  moment  to  stop 
the  pulsations  of  my  heart,  and  then  sent  it 
beating  so  fast  that  I  could  scarcely  breathe. 

"Hugh!"  I  faltered.  "I  thought  you  were 
gone  !" 

"And  so  I  was;  but  at  Liege  my  strength 
failed  me.     I  could  not  leave  you,  Barbara." 

"  Let  me  sit  down,"  I  said,  clinging  to  him. 
"I  am  giddy." 

He  passed  his  arm  about  my  waist,  and  car- 
ried me  to  a  bench  farther  in  among  the  trees. 

"  My  own  darling !"  he  exclaimed  brokenly. 
"  Look  up — look  up — smile  upon  me — tell  me 
that  I  am  welcome  !  Oh,  I  have  sufferedj/Bar- 
bara!  I  have  gone  through  an  eternity  since 
we  parted !" 

"  And  is  it  really  you  ?" 

"  It  is  really  I.  I,  thy  friend,  thy  lover,  thy 
husband !" 

"  And  you  will  never  leave  me  again  ?" 

"Not  till  you  bid  me  go  !" 

I  smiled  at  this,  and  laid  my  head  upon  his 
shoulder  like  a  tired  child. 

"  Yesterday,"  he  went  on,  "  all  Belgium  lay 
between  us.  I  was  mad  —  utterly  mad,  and 
broken-hearted.  I  should  have  been  glad  to  die 
— ^I  felt  I  must  die  if  I  went  farther !" 

"  And  so  you  turned  back  again?" 

"  Turned  back — traveled  all  the  afternoon,  all 
the  night,  and  reached  this  place  five  hours  ago. 
It  was  just  dawn,  and  I  have  been  walking  up 
and  down  these  roads  ever  since,  waiting  till  it 
Was  late  enough  to  claim  admittance." 

"One  day  more,  and  you  would  not  have 
found  me.  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  return 
to  ZoUenstrasse  to-night."  / 

"What  of  that?  I  should  have  followed 
you." 

"So  far?" 

"Cruel!  Have  I  not  fled  from  you,  come 
back  to  you,  traveled  without  rest  or  pause  since 
I  last  saw  you  ;  and  do  you  doubt  that  I  would 
follow  you,  though  ZoUenstrasse  lay  at  the  ends 
of  the  earth  ?" 

"  Ah,  but  why  did  you  fly  from  me  at  all  ?" 

He  looked  down,  and  hesitated. 

"My  darling,"  he  said,  pressing  his  hand  ner- 
vously to  his  brow,  "  I  am  a  strange  fellow,  and 
have  led  a  strange  life.  I — I  can  not  look  at 
things  as  others  do — I  am  but  half  civilized,  you 
know,  and  —  and  reason  upon  ordinary  events 
more  like  a  red  Indian  than  a  man  of  the  world. 
You  can  not  understand  what  I  have  felt  of  late 
— I  can  not  even  explain  to  you  what  I  mean  ! 
I  have  fantastic  scruples — self-torturing  doubts 
—  all  sorts  of  hesitations  —  weaknesses,  if  you 
choose  so  to  call  them.  You  must  not  question 
me  too  closely — you  must  make  allowances  and 
excuses  for  me,  and  be  content  with  knowing 
how  I  love  you.  It  would  puzzle  me,  indeed,  to 
reply  distinctly  to  all  that  you  might  ask.  My 
motives  are  not  always  clear  to  myself,  and  I 
act  more  frequently  from  impulse  than  reflec- 
tion." 

"  Then  unpulse  took  you  from  me,"  I  said  re- 
proachfully, "  and  reflection  brought  you  back  !" 

G 


"  By  heavens !  the  reverse.  I  left  you  be- 
cause— because  I  felt  unworthy  of  your  fresh, 
pure  love.  I  came  back,  because  I  could  not 
live  without  it !" 

"  And  yet ^" 

"  And  yet  you  are  not  satisfied !  Oh,  Barbara, 
bear  with  me,  bear  with  me  ;  for  I  love  you  I  I 
love  you  with  a  love  beyond  love  ;  with  all  my 
strength  and  all  my  weakness — ^with  every  breath 
that  I  draw,  and  with  every  pulse  of  my  heart ! 
To  dedicate  my  life  to  your  happiness;  to  be 
the  author  of  your  future  ;  to  build  up  all  your 
joys ;  shield  you  from  all  sorrow ;  and  turn  aside 
every  shaft  of  evil  fortune  as  it  flies  —  these, 
these  are  now  the  only  privileges  for  which  I 
pray  to  heaven !" 

Feeling  how  thoroughly  every  word  came 
from  his  heart  of  hearts,  what  could  I  do  but 
listen  and  believe  ? 

"  I  never  thought,"  continued  he,  "  to  love 
again.  I  never  hoped  to  win  a  nature  so  sweet, 
so  fresh,  so  innocent  as  yours.  My  experience, 
dear,  has  been  fierce  and  stormy ;  and  my  very 
soul  is  scarred  with  self-inflicted  wounds.  Would 
you  know  the  secret  of  my  restless  life  ?  Read 
it  in  my  bitterness  of  heart,  my  weariness  of 
soul,  my  inward  rage  of  disappointment,  my  un- 
satisfied longings !  Begun  in  the  first  buoy- 
ancy of  youth,  these  wanderings  became  at  last 
my  sole  resource.  Change  of  scene,  intercourse 
with  strangers,  accident,  danger,  activity — these 
things  alone  rescued  me  from  utter  lassitude  of 
spirit,  and  preserved  me  from  becoming  a  mere 
misanthrope.  He  who  dwells  always  in  the  world 
can  never  wholly  hate  it ;  and  I,  thank  God ! 
have  lived  too  much  among  my  fellow-men  to 
judge  them  harshly.  Still,  Barbara,  I  have  suf- 
fered— suffered  disappointment,  and  solitude, 
and  that  feverish  recklessness  of  past  and  future 
that  has  already  hurried  many  a  better  man  to 
perdition.  But  it  is  over  —  over  forever,  my 
sweet  child  !  You  love  me,  and  I  am  at  rest ! 
You  love  me,  my  love*,  and  that  knowledge  is 
the  undeserved  blessing  of  my  life." 

I  had  listened,  till  now,  in  a  dreamy  content, 
paying  less  heed  to  the  sense  of  what  he  said 
than  to  the  low,  passionate  music  of  his  voice  ; 
but  at  these  last  words  I  started.  My  love  "  the 
undeserved  blessing  of  his  life !"  Alas !  four 
days  ago — only  four  days  ago — in  accents  that 
I  never  could  forget,  had  he  not  cried  against  it  as 
"a  curse?"  A  curse!  The  recollection  was 
horrible,  and  flashed  across  me  like  an  evil  pro- 
phecy. 

"Oh,  Hugh,"  I  faltered,  "are  you  sure  that 
I  can  make  you  happier?" 

"  As  sure,"  said  he,  "  as  of  my  own  exist- 
ence." 

"  But  I  am  so  young  and  ignorant  —  what 
power  of  blessing  can  there  be  in  me  ?" 

"  As  much  as  in  any  saint  that  ever  visited 
the  visions  of  an  anchorite !  Power  to  bless,  to 
heal,  to  save !  Power,  dear  heart,  to  bring  me 
back  to  the  earnestness  of  life,  and  teach  me  all 
the  meanings  of  that  sweet  word  '  home,'  which 
as  yet  I  have  never,  never  learned  1" 

"  Home  1"  I  repeated,  musingly.  "  Home  I 
Home  means  Broomhill  —  oh,  Hugh,  how 
strange  that  seems !" 

His  hand  closed  sharply  and  suddenly  on 
mine. 

"  Home,  my  dear  love,"  he  said,  hurriedly, 


98 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


"means  any  corner  of  God's  earth  where  you 
and  I  may  care  to  pitch  our  tent  together.  We 
carry  our  home  in  our  own  true  hearts,  and 
neither  country,  nor  climate,  have  aught  to  do 
with  it!" 

"But — ^but  will  you  still  care  to  be  always 
wandering  ?"  I  asked,  somewhat  dismayed. 

*'  Heaven  forbid !  Nay,  darling,  why  that 
troubled  face !  My  wanderings  are  done,  my 
anchor  cast,  my  haven  found !  Your  presence  is 
now  become  my  only  need ;  and  where  you  are, 
there  is  home  for  me  !  Do  you  not  believe  that 
loving  you  thus,  I  could  be  as  happy  with  you 
in  Siberia  as  in  England — in  a  prison  as  at 
Broomhill?  Now,  for  my  part,  I  should  ask 
nothing  better  than  to  live  with  you  forever  in 
a  secluded  chalet  on  the  borders  of  some  blue 
Swiss  lake,  isolated  and  unknown  !  Or,  better 
still,  in  some  old  Italian  villa  looking  to  the  sea, 
with  gardens  half  in  ruin,  halls  once  painted  by 
the  hand  of  Mantegna  or  Bordone,  and  a  name 
recalling  all  the  faded  glories  of  a  race  long 
passed  away !     What  say  you,  Barbara  mia .?" 

'"  That  I  could  be  happy  anywhere  with  you, 
needing  neither  chalets,  nor  villas,  nor  any  kind 
of  probation  to  prove  it,  Hugh ;  but  that,  above 
all  imaginary  homes,  I  prize  and  prefer  your 
own  dear  substantial,  actual  English  house  at 
Broomhill !" 

He  turned  his  head  away,  still  playing  caress- 
ingly with  my  hand. 

"Do  you  so  love  and  remember  it?"  he 
asked  in  a  low  constrained  tone. 

"  I  remember  it,  as  if  it  were  but  yesterday 
when  last  I  saw  it ;  and  I  love  it  better  than 
any  spot  in  all  the  world  !" 

He  was  silent,  and,  in  the  midst  of  his  silence, 
the  clocks  again  began  striking. 

"  Ten  o'clock !"  I  exclaimed.  "  Ten  o'clock, 
and  we  always  breakfast  punctually  at  half-past 
nine !     What  will  papa  say  ?" 

"  That  he  has  no  objection,  I  hope,  to  receive 
me  for  a  son-in-law  !  Come,  shall  we  go  in  and 
tell  him  that  he  has  this  morning  lost  another 
daughter?" 

And  so  we  rose  from  our  bench  among  the 
trees,  and  went  back  along  the  AUee  des  Veuves. 
At  our  own  gate  we  paused,  and  Hugh  put  out 
his  hand  to  ring  the  bell.  I  laid  mine  on  his 
wrist,  and  stopped  him. 

"But  tell  me,"  I  said,  half-laughing,  half- 
crying — "  shall  I  really  not  go  back  to  Zollen- 
8trasse-am-Main  ?" 

"No  more,  dearest,  than  I  shall  go  to  St. 
Petersburgh !" 

— ♦ — 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 

THE   SILVER    RING   IS   TURNED  TO   GOLD. 

Three  weeks  went  by — only  three  weeks  of 
betrothal  between  that  morning  and  our  mar- 
riage day !  An  interval  too  brief,  considering 
how  mere  a  child  I  was ;  but,  even* so,  too  long 
for  his  impatience.  •  Bewildered  by  a  thousand 
womanly  cares  and  preparations  and  hurried  on 
by  his  feverish  entreaties,  I  saw  the  time  glide 
past,  almost  without  comprehending  how  utterly 
my  future  was  transformed,  or  how  grave  a  care 
I  had  taken  into  my  life.  I  was  about  to  be- 
come Hugh  Farquhar's  wife — that  was  the  one 
thought  filling  all  my  being,  starting  up  before  . 


me  at  every  turn,  and  informing  my  very  dreams 
with  a  strange  joy,  half  wonder  and  half  prayer. 
His  wife  !  There  were  times  when  I  could  not 
believe  it — when  not  even  that  little  ruby  ring, 
''  heart-shaped  and  vermeil-dyed,"  with  which  he 
had  commemorated  our  first  vows,  seemed  proof 
enough — when  only  the  pressure  of  his  warm, 
strong  hand,  and  the  repeated  assurance  that  he 
loved  me,  and  only  me  in  all  the  world,  could 
bring  conviction  of  the  truth.  His  wife  !  How 
should  I  deserve,  and  how  do  honor  to  that 
name  ?  What  was  I,  that  he  should  have  chosen 
me  to  be  the  friend  and  companion  of  his  life  ? 
I  loved  him,  it  is  true ;  and  I  had  loved  him 
from  my  childhood  upward.  Before  I  had 
ever  seen  him,  he  was  the  hero  of  every  fairy- 
tale and  every  wild  adventure  that  I  read — the 
prince  in  disguise,  the  avenger,  the  conqueror, 
the  chevalier  "saws  peur  et  sans  reproche.'^ 
At  Broomhill,  from  that  night  when  first  we 
met,  he  became  the  idol  of  my  dreams ;  and, 
engrafting  upon  my  knowledge  of  the  man  as  I 
then  saw  him  all  that  had  before  been  visionary 
and  romantic  in  my  conception  of  him,  I  loved 
him  as  only  a  child  can  love — purely,  passionate* 
ly,  humbly,  like  a  dog,  or  a  devotee.  Remem. 
bering  how  I  lay  at  his  door  when  he  was  ill ; 
how  I  prayed  for  him ;  how  I  watched  his  every 
look ;  anticipated  his  merest  wish ;  and  was  re- 
paid  a  thousand-fold  by  only  a  smile  or  a  word, 
I  could  but  acknowledge  that  I  deserved,  after 
all  these  years,  to  win  his  love  in  return.  Yes — 
I  had  loved  him  all  my  life,  and  he  had  chosen 
me  to  be  his  wife  at  last ! 

Still  I  was  very  young  —  very  ignorant  of  the 
world  and  its  duties  —  very  doubtful  how  to 
make  him  happy,  and  how  to  be  worthy  of  his 
choice.  Fain  would  I,  for  these  reasons,  have 
prolonged  our  engagement  for  a  year ;  but  my 
father  objected  to  the  delay,  and  Hugh  himself 
could  scarcely  have  pleaded  more  eagerly  had  I 
desired  to  break  it  off  altogether.  Even  when 
I  had  given  up  this  point,  and  the  day  was  close 
at  hand,  he  tormented  himself  and  me  with  a 
thousand  apprehensions. 

"I  feel,"  he  said,  "as  if  something m?^s< hap- 
pen to  rob  me  of  my  happiness  —  as  if  an  in- 
visible hand  were  outstretched,  even  now,  to 
snatch  you  from  me  !  I  never  leave  you  with- 
out a  vague  dread  lest  it  should  be  the  last  time 
that  I  behold  you ;  and  I  never  return  to  the 
house  without  asking  myself  what  I  should  do 
if  you  were  gone,  no  one  knew  whither !  At 
night  I  start  from  sleep,  calling  upon  your 
name,  and  fancying  we  are  parted  forever.  I 
know  that  these  are  absurd  terrors ;  but  is  it  my 
fault  if  I  suJBfer  from  them  ?  Till  you  are  wholly 
and  irrevocably  mine,  it  must  be  thus.  Without 
you  I  am  nothing — not  even  myself.  Tortured 
by  a  thousand  fears  and  follies,  I  count  every 
day  and  every  hour  that  lies  between  me  and 
the  fulfillment  of  my  hopes.  Do  you  wonder 
at  it  ?  I  have  never  yet  been  happy,  and  hap- 
piness is  just  within  my  grasp.  I  have  thirsted  ; 
and  an  angel  holds  the  cup  to  my  lips.  I  have 
wandered  all  my  life  in  the  desert ;  and  Par- 
adise is  opening  before  me !  If  I  am  a  coward, 
it  is  because  I  love  you,  and  because  to  lose  you 
were  to  lose  all  that  makes  existence  precious !" 
Saying  thus,  he  would  clasp  me  wildly  to  his 
heart ;  or  seize  my  hands  and  cover  them  with 
kisses. 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


99 


Sometimes  he  was  absent,  silent,  oppressed, 
as  it  were,  with  an  overwhelming  melancholy. 
Sometimes  he  almost  terrified  me  by  his  frantic 
and  unbounded  gayety.  More  than  once,  when 
we  were  sitting  quietly  alone,  talking  as  lovers 
talk  by  twilight,  he  started  from  my  side  like 
one  possessed,  and  paced  the  room  in  uncon- 
trollable agitation.  If  I  questioned  him  upon 
these  wayward  moods  he  laughed  the  subject 
off,  or  went  back  to  the  old  theme  of  his  pre- 
sentiments and  his  impatience. 

During  these  three  weeks  my  father  was  kind- 
er to  me  than  he  had  ever  been  before.  Know- 
ing what  my  views  had  been  with  regard  to  art, 
I  think  he  was  agreeably  surprised  by  the  turn 
affairs  had  taken  —  at  all  events,  he  took  occa- 
sion to  show  me  that  I  had  risen  in  his  good 
opinion,  and  that  he  looked  upon  my  present 
conduct  as  the  result  of  his'  own  paternal/eares 
and  counsels.  He  considered  that  to  marry  ad- 
vantageously was  the  duty  of  every  well-bred 
young  woman,  and  that  to  achieve  this  duty  as 
early  as  possible,  evinced  on  her  part  only  the 
more  gratitude  and  discretion.  I  had  fulfilled 
both  these  conditions,  and  he  was  pleased  to  re- 
gard me  with  proportionate  favor.  In  all  mat- 
ters connected  with  my  trousseau,  he  was  liberal 
to  a  degree  that  surprised  me  ;  for  I  knew  that 
Mrs.  Churchill's  fortune  was  settled  on  herself, 
and  that  our  means  had  never  been  large  ;  but 
he  explained  this  by  telling  me  that  he  had  some 
years  ago  sunk  his  capital  for  an  annuity,  re- 
serving only  a  few  hundreds  in  case  of  sudden 
need.  These  hundreds  he  had  now  divided  be- 
tween Hilda  and  myself;  judging  it  better  for 
ourselves,  and  more  creditable  to  his  own  name 
and  position  to  equip  his  daughters  richly,  than 
to  bequeath  them,  at  his  death,  a  sum  too  small 
to  be  regarded  in  the  light  of  a  dowry.  His 
own  pride,  in  short,  colored  all  my  father's 
opinions,  and  governed  every  action  of  his  life. 

From  the  manner  in  which  he  received  Mr. 
Farquhar's  proposals,  and  the  readiness  with 
which  he  consented  to  our  speedy  union,  I 
could  not  help  thinking  that  he  had,  from  the 
first,  foreseen  how  this  intimacy  might  end,  and 
was  glad  to  get  me  married  as  soon  as  might  be. 
Certain  it  was  that  both  he  and  Mrs.  Churchill 
had  afforded  every  facility  to  our  attachment ; 
and  I  now  remembered  a  thousand  trifles  that  had 
escaped  me  at  the  time,  if  not  without  observa- 
tion, at  all  events  without  suspicion.  Now  they 
recurred  to  me  distinctly  enough,  and  despite 
my  present  happiness,  irritated  and  humiliated 
me  almost  beyond  endurance. 

Thus  the  three  weeks  ebbed  away,  and  it 
came  to  the  eve  of  our  wedding. 

We  had  had  news  that  day  from  Hilda,  Her 
letter  was  dated  from  Drontheim,  and  full  of 
the  scenery  of  the  DovreQeld,  over  which  they 
had  just  passed.  In  a  brief  message  she  desired 
her  love  and  her  congratulations  to  her  "sister 
Barbara ;"  but  it  read  coldly  and  grudgingly,  as 
if  she  could  scarcely  forgive  me  for  my  happiness. 
This  impression,  added  to  the  cares  and  excite- 
ments of  this  busy  time,  made  me  sad  and 
weary ;  and  I  was  thankful  when  Hugh  came  at 
length  to  tempt  me  out  for  a  last  stroll  among 
the  dusky  avenues  of  the  Champs  Elys^es. 

It  was  twilight,  and  the  evening  air  tasted  al- 
ready of  autumnal  frosts.  We  were  glad  to 
walk  fast  and  get  warm,  exchanging  just  a  word 


from  time  to  time,  and  finding  as  much  com- 
panionship in  silence  as  in  speech.  How  gay  it 
was  here  among  the  crowded  pathways !  How 
the  lamps  glittered,  and  the  music  echoed  in 
the  illuminated  gardens  of  the  Cafes  Chantants ! 
Here  were  carriages,  "  thick  as  leaves  in  Yal- 
lambrosa."  Yonder,  with  a  helmet  on  his  head, 
and  a  trumpeter  at  his  side,  stood  a  quack  doc- 
tor, gesticulating  like  a  marionnette.  A  little 
farther  on  was  gathered  a  ring  of  applauding 
spectators,  with  the  dancing  dogs  performing  in 
the  midst.  It  was  Paris  epitomized  —  pleasure- 
seeking,  feverish  Paris,  with  all  its  wealth,  its 
poverty,  and  its  unrest ! 

Strolling  idly  hither  and  thither ;  hazarding 
guesses  as  to  where  we  two  might  be  this  day 
week,  or  this  day  month  ;  talking  now  of  Rome, 
now  of  Venice,  and  now  of  the  great  Alps 
which  I  was  soon  to  see  for  the  first  time,  we 
came  all  at  once  upon  a  space  to  the  left  of  the 
Cirque,  where  an  itinerant  ballad-singer  stood, 
surrounded  by  his  little  audience.  Something  in 
the  voice,  something  in  the  melody  struck  me, 
and  we  paused  to  listen. 

"  Surely,"  said  Hugh,  "it  is  our  guitarist  of 
Vincennes !" 

And  so  it  was.  We  did  not  care  to  go  near- 
er ;  but,  lingering  beyond  the  circle,  could  just 
catch  the  plaintive  burden  of  his  song :  — 

"  File,  file,  pav/vre  Marie, 
File,  file,  pour  le  prisonnier  .'" 

When  this  was  ended,  he  sang  another  as  sad. 
Then  there  was  a  stir  among  the  listeners,  and 
some  dispersed,  and  we  saw  a  woman  collecting 
such  stray  contributions  as  three  or  four  of  the 
more  liberal  were  pleased  to  offer. 

"Poor  Orpheus!"  ejaculated  my  companion, 
taking  out  his  purse.  "I  had  not  supposed 
that  there  was  a  Eurydice  in  the  case  !" 

Scarcely  had  the  words  escaped  his  lips,  when 
she  came  a  step  or  two  nearer ;  but  hesitatingly, 
as  if  too  proud  to  solicit.  Hugh  slipped  a  five- 
franc  piece  into  my  hand. 

"  Be  my  almoner,"  he  whispered,  and  drew 
back  to  let  me  give  it. 

She  took  it,  unconscious  of  its  value ;  then 
paused,  exammed  it  wonderingly,  and  looked 
up  in  my  face.  At  that  moment  I  felt  my  arm 
crushed  in  Hugh's  grasp,  as  in  a  vice ! 

"  Come  away  !  come  away  !"  he  said,  drag- 
ging me  suddenly,  almost  savagely,  into  the 
road.  "  My  God,  child !  why  do  you  hold 
back  ?" 

Too  frightened  to  reply,  X  suffered  myself  to 
be  hurried  between  the  very  wheels  o[  the  car- 
riages, and  lifted  into  the  first  empty  fly  that 
came  past. 

"  Oil  allez  voiis,  Monsieur  .^"  asked  the  driver. 

Hugh  flung  himself  back,  with  a  kind  of 
groan. 

"  Anywhere  —  anywhere  !  "  he  exclaimed. 
"  Out  beyond  the  barriers  —  round  by  the  In- 
valides.     Anywhere !" 

The  man  touched  his  hat,  and  took  the  road  to 
Neuilly.  For  a  long  time  we  were  both  silent ; 
but  at  length,  weary  of  waiting,  I  stole  my  hand 
into  his,  and  nestled  closer  to  his  side. 

"  Oh,  Hugh,"  I  said,  "  what  ails  you  ?  What 
has  happened  ?" 

He  shook  his  head  gloomily, 

«  Was  it  my  fault,  Hugh  ?" 


100 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


"  Your  fault,  my  darling  ?    What  folly  !" 

And,  taking  my  head  in  his  two  hands,  he 
kissed  me  tenderly,  almost  compassionately,  like 
an  indulgent  father. 

*'  Nay,  then,  what  ailed  you  just  now  ?" 

He  shuddered,  hesitated,  sighed  heavily. 

"I  —  I  scarcely  know,"  he  said.  "  It  was  the 
sight  of  that  —  that  woman's  face  when  the  light 
fell  on  it  —  a  resemblance,  Barbara  —  a  resem- 
blance so  strange  and  ghost-like,  that  —  Pshaw, 
child,  can  you  not  understand  that,  when  a  man 
has  traveled  about  the  world  for  twelve  or  four- 
teen years,  he  may  sometimes  come  across  a  face 
that  startles  him — reminds  him  perhaps  of  some 
other  face  thousands  of  miles  away  ?  It  has 
happened  to  me  before  —  fifty  times  before." 

"  And  was  that  all  ?" 

"  All.     All  and  enough." 

"But  you  frightened  me  —  and  my  arm  will 
be  black  and  blue  to-morrow." 

"  Oh,  Heavens  !     Have  I  hurt  you  ?" 

Laughing,  I  rolled  up  my  sleeve,  and,  by  the 
light  of  the  lamps,  showed  him  the  red  marks 
on  my  arm.  He  overwhelmed  himself  with  re- 
proaches and  me  with  pity,  till,  satisfied  with 
the  excess  of  his  penitence,  I  silenced  and  for- 
gave him. 

"  But,"  I  began,  "  you  have  not  yet  told  me 
whose  face " 

He  interrupted  me  by  a  gesture. 

*'  My  dear  love,"  he  said  earnestly,  "  spare  me 
that  question.  By  and  by,  when  you  have  known 
me  longer  and  better,  I  will  tell  you  from  end 
to  end,  the  story  of  "my  life  —  all  its  follies,  all 
its  weaknesses,  all  its  errors.  But  this  is  not 
the  time  or  place,  Barbara.  Wait  —  wait  and 
trust ;  and  till  then  ask  no  more.  Will  you 
promise  this  ?" 

I  promised  it,  readily  enough ;  and  there  it 
ended. 

The  next  morning  we  were  married.  Married 
very  early,  and  very  quietly,  in  the  little  Mar- 
boeuf  Chapel  of  the  Rue  du  Chaillot.  We  had 
neither  bridesmaids,  nor  carriages,  nor  wedding- 
guests.  We  walked  down  to  the  chapel  before 
^  breakfast,  my  father,  Mrs.  Churchill,  and  I,  and 
found  Hugh  waiting  for  us,  and  the  clergyman 
chatting  with  him  over  the  rails  of  the  chancel.  I 
can  see  the  place  now ;  the  morning  sun  shining 
slantwise  through  the  upper  windows  ;  the  turned 
cushions  in  the  pews  ;  and  the  old  "sextoness,  in 
her  mob-cap  and  sabots,  dusting  the  hassocks  on 
which  we  were  to  kneel.  I  even  remember  how, 
in  the  midst  of  the  service,  my  eyes  became  at- 
tracted to  a  tablet  beside  the  altar,  recording 
the  early  death  of  a  certain  Eleanor  Rothsay, 
"  one  year  and  three  days  after  her  marriage  ;" 
and  how,  with  a  strange  pang,  I  wondered  if 
she  were  content  to  die ;  if  her  husband  soon 
forgot  her ;  and  whether  he  loved  another  when 
she  was  gone? 

When  the  ceremony  was  over,  and  the  great 
books  had  been  signed  in  the  vestry,  we  went 
home  again  on  foot,  and  breakfasted  together, 
as  usual.  As  for  me,  my  thoughts  still  ran  on 
that  poor  Eleanor  and  her  brief  year  of  happi- 
ness. It  haunted  me,  like  a  sad  tune,  and  set 
itself  to  every  sight  and  sound  of  the  "  garish 
day ;"  nor  did  I  quite  forget  it  till,  having  bade 
them  all  good-by,  I  found  myself  alone  with  my 
husband,  speeding,  speeding  away,  with  Paris 


already  far  behind,  and  the  eager  train  bearing 
us  on  toward  Italy  —  the  "  azure  Italy"  of  my 
old  desires. 

"  My  wife !"  murmured  Hugh,  as  he  folded  me 
closer  and  closer  to  his  heart.  "  Mine  —  my 
own  —  my  beloved  !  never,  never  more,  by  day 
or  night,  to  be  parted  from  me  !" 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

OUR     HALCYON     DAYS. 

•'  Ye  glittering  towns  with  wealth  and  splendor  crowned ; 
Ye  fields  where  summer  spreads  profusion  round ; 
Ye  lakes  whose  vessels  catch  the  busy  gale." 

Goldsmith. 

We  are  traveling  —  have  been  traveling  for 
many  days  —  and  find  a  second  summer  among 
the  hights  of  the  Bernese  Oberland.  The  sky 
hangs  over  lis  like  a  dome  of  blue  and  burning 
steel ;  and  for  a  week  we  have  not  seen  a  cloud. 
Every  night  we  rest  at  some  hamlet  in  a  valley 
among  mountains  ;  and  every  morning  are  on  the 
road  again.  How  happy  we  are,  wandering  like 
children,  hand  in  hand,  amid  this  wild  and  beauti- 
ful nature !  Italy  hes  yonder,  behind  those  far- 
thest peaks ;  but  we  are  in  no  haste  to  climb 
them  while  this  rare  autumn  lasts.  Free  to  go, 
free  to  stay,  free  to  loiter  away  our  halcyon  days 
where  or  how  we  will,  we  linger  among  the  up- 
per Alps,  and  can  not  bear  to  leave  them.  Some- 
times our  path  lies  across  brown,  heathery  slopes, 
blazing  with  sunlight ;  sometimes  through  gorges 
dark  with  firs  and  deep  in  shade,  where  the  night- 
dews  rest  till  noon.  The  other  morning,  we  saw 
the  sunrise  from  the  Righi.  Yesterday  we  row- 
ed across  the  blue-green  lake  of  Brientz,  and 
slept  within  hearing  of  the  waterfalls  in  the  vale 
of  Hasli.  To-day  we  have  the  Wetterhorn  be- 
fore us,  piercing  the  calm  sky  like  an  obe- 
lisk of  frosted  silver.  By  and  by,  crossing  a 
plateau  of  bare  rock,  we  stand  where  the  glacier 
of  Rosenlaui  reaches  a  frozen  arm  toward  us 
down  a  chasm  in  the  mountains.  Tossed  in 
huge  peaks,  and  precipices,  and  crests  of  cruel 
ice,  it  lies  with  the  blue  light  permeating  through 
its  uppermost  blocks,  and  the  sun  shimmering 
over  all  its  surface,  like  a  moving  mantle  of  in- 
tolerable splendor.'  Silently  we  traverse  a  mere 
plank  across  a  rushing  cataract,  and  tread  the 
solid  ice.  Great  crevices  and  pinnacles  are 
around  us.  We  enter  a  cavern  in  the  glacier  — 
a  cavern  blue  and  glassy  as  the  grotto  at  Capri 
—  and  open  in  places  to  the  still  bluer  vault  of 
heaven.  Strange  passages  of  ice  branch  from 
it  right  and  left,  leading  no  one  knows  whither  ; 
but  our  mountaineers  whisper  together  of  one 
who  ventured  to  explore  them  and  returned  no 
more. 

"Supposing,  now,  that  these  ice-walls  were 
to  give  way,"  says  my  husband,  leaning  com- 
posedly upon  his  Alpenstock,  "  our  remains 
might  be  preserved  here  for  centuries ;  like  the 
Mammoths  that  have  been  found  from  time  to  time 
imbedded  in  the  ice-fields  of  Siberia !  Only  con- 
ceive, Barbarina,  how  the  savants  of  a  thousand 
years  to  come  would  be  delighted  with  us !" 

Seeing  how  the  sides  of  the  cave  drip  in  the 
sun,  and  to  what  frail  points  of  junction  they 
have  melted  here  and  there,  I  confess  to  having 
but  little  relish  for  such  speculations. 

"  This  place,"  continues  he,  "  reminds  me  of 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY 


101 


Dante's  lowest  circle.  Here  are  the  '■gelate  crosfe;* 
but  where  is  Lucifer,  with  his  mouthful  of  sin- 
ners ?  By  the  way,  had  Dante  ever  seen  a  gla- 
cier ?  It  is  possible.  He  traveled  to  Germany 
and  Paris,  and  studied  theology  at  Oxford.  He 
might  have  crossed  the  Alps,  Barbarina  —  who 
can  tell  ?" 

Who,  indeed  ?  But  we  have  now  once  more 
emerged  upon  the  outer  world,  and  stand  look- 
ing up  toward  that  mysterious  and  immeasur- 
able ice-field  reaching  away  from  plateau  to 
plateau,  from  peak  to  peak,  from  Alp  to  Alp,  of 
which  the  mightiest  glaciers  are  but  fringes  on 
the  mantle  of  winter.  Before  this  sight,  we 
both  are  silent ;  and,  as  we  go  down  again  into 
the  valley,  I  remember  those  solemn  lines, 
"  written  before  Sunrise  at  Chamounix"  : — 

"  '  Ye  Icefalls  !    Ye  that  from  the  mountain's  brow 
Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain  — 
Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a  mighty  voice, 
And  stopped  at  once  amid  their  maddest  plung^' " 


It  is  a  glowing  golden  afternoon,  and  this 
"  summer  of  All  Saints  "  has  not  yet  been  trou- 
bled by  a  sign  of  change.  "We  are  staying  now 
at  Interlaken,  whence  all  the  summer  visitors 
have  long  departed  ;  and  this  morning  have  come 
up  the  Valley  of  Lauterbrunnen,  and  seen  the 
rainbow  on  the  StaubbaQh.  Hence,  a  steep 
zig-zag  in  the  cliff  has  brought  us  to  a  plateau  of 
pasture-lands  nine  hundred  feet  above  the  valley. 
Far  beneath,  threaded  by  a  line  of  shining  tor- 
rent, and  looking  so  white,  and  still,  and  small, 
that  I  fancy  I  might  almost  cover  it  with  my 
hand,  lies  the  tiny  village  with  its  wooden  bridge 
and  antique  painted  spire.  High  above  and  be- 
fore us,  with  only  the  fir-forests  of  the  Wengern 
Alp  between,  rise  the  summits  of  the  Jungfrau 
and  the  Peak  of  Silver. 

"  How  strange  it  is  up  here !"  says  Hugh,  as 
we  pause  to  rest  and  look  around.  "  What  a  de- 
licious sensation  of  hight  and  freedom !  This  pla- 
teau is  a  mere  shelf  midway  up  the  mountain, 
and  yet  we  have  streams,  and  meadow-lands,  and 
all  the  verdure  of  the  valleys.  Faith,  love,  I 
had  rather  live  in  such  a  scene,  with  the  Alps 
for  my  neighbors,  than  in  any  family  mansion 
that  disfigures  the  face  of  the  earth  !" 

"  Had  you  been  born  to  the  inheritance  of  a 
chalet  and  a  couple  of  meadows,  husband,  you 
would  tell  a  different  tale  !" 

"  Nay,  wife,  you  should  have  milked  the  cows, 
and  made  the  cheeses ;  and  I  would  have  car- 
ried them  to  market  on  my  back,  like  that  stal- 
wart felloe  who  went  by  just  now.  It  would 
have  been  a  pretty  piece  of  pastoral  for  us  both  !" 

And  so,  laughing  gayly  together,  we  go  for- 
ward in  the  sunshine,  and  at  every  step  the 
scene  becomes  more  lovely.  We  are  in  a  dis- 
trict of  farm-lands  and  pastures.  Every  now 
and  then,  we  come  upon  a  cluster  of  cottages 
built  in  red-brown  wood,  with  great  sheltering 
eaves,  and  carven  balconies,  where  long  strings 
of  Indian  corn  hang  out  to  dry  in  the  sun. 
Some  of  these  cottages  have  proverbs  and  sen- 
tences of  Scripture  cut  in  German  charabters  all 
across  the  front ;  and  at  the  doors  sit  old  women 
with  their  distaffs,  and  young  girls  who  sing  as 
we  pass  by.  Now  we  turn  aside  to  gather  the 
wild  gentians  hidden  in  the  grass,  and  fill  our 
mountain  flasks  at  a  pool  among  the  rocks ;  and 


now,  on  a  mound  overgrown  with  briers,  we  find 
an  Alpine  strawberry.  Here,  too,are  purple  whor- 
tleberries and  star-leaved  immortelles,  and  whole 
shrubberies  of  the  Alp-rose,  with  its  myrtle-Uke 
leaf.  But  the  roses  are  faded,  and  will  bloom 
no  more  till  the  snows  have  fallen  and  melted 
again ! 

Now  the  cliffs  close  round  more  nearly,  and  the 
plateau  narrows  to  a  space  of  rock-strewn  heath, 
a  mile  or  so  in  width.  The  spot  is  strangely 
desolate,  sind  looks  as  though  it  might  have  been 
the  battle-ground  of  ^the  Titans.  Huge  blocks 
of  slate-gray  granite  here  lie  piled  and  scatter- 
ed —  each  fragment  a  rock.  Some  are  brown 
with  moss ;  some  are  half-buried  in  the  turf ;  and 
some  are  clothed  with  shrubs,  the  growth  of 
years.  A  few  goats  browsing  here  and  there, 
with  bells  about  their  necks,  and  a  few  rude  cow- 
sheds built  in  sheltered  corners,  "  all  in  and  out 
of  the  rocks,"  only  serve  to  make  the  place  more 
solitary. 

"  I  remember  this  spot,''  says  Hugh,  eagerly. 
"  I  descended  upon  it  from  the  mountains,  years 
ago,  when  I  walked  through  Switzerland  on  foot. 
It  was  more  wild  and  savage  then  —  and  so  was 
I.  Ah,  little  wife,  you  can  not  fancy  how  wild 
and  savage  I  was  !" 

"  Nay,  it  is  not  difl&cult.  You  are  half  a  bar- 
barian now !" 

"Ami?    Well,  so  much  the  better;  for  it 

shall  be  your  occupation  to  tame  me  !     But  look 

up  yonder  —  do  you  see  a  tiny  rift  there,  on  the 

face  of  the  crag ;  like  a  scar  on  a  soldier's  brow  ?" 

"Yes,  I  see  it." 

*'  Well  from  that  rift  fell  a  rock,  which,  shat- 
tering from  ledge  to  ledge,  covered  these  acres 
with  ruin.  It  happened,  fortunately,  toward 
midday,  on  the  anniversary  of  some  country  fes- 
tival, when  the  farm-folks  were  all  gone  down  into 
the  valley.  What  must  they  have  felt,  poor 
souls,  when  they  came  up  at  sunset,  and  found 
their  homes  desolate !" 

"  Oh,  Hugh !  when  did  this  happen  ?" 
*'  Long,  long  ago — twenty  years,  or  more. 
The  grass  has  grown,  and  the  shrubs  have  sprung 
up  since  then,  making  destruction  beautiful. 
But  it  was  not-  thus  when  I  first  saw  it.  Those 
green  hillocks  were  then  mere  mounds  of  stones 
and  rubbish,  and  all  the  ground  was  sown  with 
rugged  fragments.  Hark  !  what  sound  is  that  ?" 
Startled,  we  hold  our  breathing,  and  listen. 
First  come  a  few  hoarse  discordant  notes,  and 
then,  as  if  in  the  air  above  our  heads,  a  silvery  en- 
tanglement of  such  rare  cadences  as  we  have 
never  heard  before.  What  can  it  be?  We  hear  it 
die  away,  as  if  carried  from  us  by  the  breeze, 
and,  looking  in  each  other's  faces,  are  about  to 
speak,  when  it  breaks  forth  again,  mingling, 
echoing,  fading  as  before,  upon  the  upper  air ! 
"  We  are'  on  enchanted  ground,"  whispers 
Hugh ;  "  and  this  is  the  music  that  Ferdinand 
followed  in  the  Island  of  Prospero  !" 

"  Say,  rather,  that  there  are  Eolian  harps  hid- 
den somewhere  in  the  rocks,"  I  more  practically 
suggest.     "  Let  us  look  for  them  !" 

"  Look  for  them  yourself,  prosaic  mortal — I 
shall  seek  Ariel.  What  ho  !  my  tricksy  spirit !" 
But  lo  !  a  sudden  turn  in  the  rocks  brings  us 
face  to  face  with  the  mystery ;  and  our  fairy 
music,  so  wild  and  sweet,  proves  to  be  a  won- 
drous echo,  tossed  from  cliff  to  cliff.  As  for 
Ariel,  he  is  only  a  tiny  cow-boy  blowing  a  horn 


102 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


seven  feet  in  length  for  the  entertainment  of  a 
solitary  traveler,  who  rides  by,  like  Doctor  Syn- 
tax, with  a  mule  and  an  umbrella. 


Thun,  Berne,  the  Gemmi,  Leukerbad — we 
have  seen  all  these,  and  left  the  Oberland  behind 
us ;  and  now  our  route  lies  through  the  valley  of 
the  Rhone.  We  came  from  Leukerbad  to  Leuk 
last  evening  by  the  gorge  of  the  Dala ;  and  this 
morning  drive  gayly  out  through  the  one  deso- 
late street  of  this  crumbling  old  Vallaisan  town, 
passing  the  church,  and  the  antique  castle  with 
its  four  quaint  turrets,  and  the  covered  bridge 
over  the  Rhone.  Hence  we  journey  for  some 
distance  among  stony  shrub-grown  hillocks,  and 
plantations  of  young  trees ;  and  then  we  cross 
the  river  again  into  a  district  of  vineyards,  with 
our  road  reaching  straight  into  the  dim  perspec- 
tive, miles  and  miles  away.  How  like  a  paint- 
ing of  Turner's  'it  opens  before  us,  this  broad 
and  beautiful  valley  !  Rich  sloping  vines 
"  combed  out  upon  the  hillsides"  skirt  the  mount- 
ains on  either  hand;  sometimes  divided  from 
the  road  by  flats  of  emerald  meadow,  and  some- 
times trailing  their  ripe  fruits  within  reach  of  the 
passing  wayfarer.  Behind  us,  the  stupendous 
precipices  of  the  Gemmi  still  tower  into  sight ; 
and  in  advance,  far  as  we  can  see,  the  valley  is 
bounded  right  and  left  by  the  Vallaisan  Alps, 
which  mingle  their  snow-peaks  with  the  gather- 
ing cumuli,  and  fade  away  to  air.  Midway  along 
the  shadowy  vista  rise  two  steep  and  solitary 
hills,  each  crowned,  like  a  Roman  victor,  with 
its  mural  coronet  of  ruins.  A  glorious  landscape, 
so  stately  with  poplars,  so  garlanded  with  vines, 
so  thoroughly  Italian  in  its  beauty,  that  it  might 
well  be  on  the  other  side  of  the  Alps,  for  any 
difference  that  the  eye  can  see  ! 

Thus,  as  we  go  forward  through  the  plain, 
passing  villages,  and  towns,  and  vineyards  where 
the  merry  vintage  is  at  its  hight,  the  scene  be- 
comes more  and  more  Italian.  In  Sierra,  through 
which  our  postillions  rattle  at  full  speed,  the 
houses  are  high  and  dilapidated,  with  arca^des 
running  along  the  basement  stories,  and  Italian 
signs  and  names  above  the  doors.  In  Sion  there 
are  Capuchins  at  the  corners  of  the  streets  ;  and 
sullen,  handsome  women,  who  throw  up  their 
windows,  and  lean  out  to  look  at  us,  in  true  Ital- 
ian fashion.  Even  the  farm-houses  scattered 
all  about  the  valley  are  stuccoed  white,  or  built 
of  stone;  with  loggias  on  the  roof,  and  some- 
times a  trellised  vine  before  the  door.  We  are 
now,  it-  would  seem,  in  the  very  heart  of  the 
grape-district.  Here  are  vineyards  in  the  val- 
ley, vineyards  on  the  hillsides,  vineyards  down 
to  the  road  on  either  hand !  From  some  the 
harvest  has  already  been  gathered  —  some  are 
still  heavy  with  white  and  purple  fruit  —  and 
some  are  filled  with  gay  groups  of  vintagers, 
sunburnt  as  the  soil.  By  and  by  we  come  upon 
a  long  procession  of  carts,  all  laden  with  high 
wooden  cans  of  grapes ;  then  upon  an  open  shed, 
where  some  five  or  six  swarthy  fellows,  armed 
with  short  poles,  are  mashing  the  red  fruit ;  then 
upon  a  couple  of  grave  shovel-hatted  Abbes,  and 
a  stalwart  friar,  who  prints  the  dusty  road  with 
the  firm  impress  of  his  sandaled  foot  at  each  im- 
patient stride.  Then  come  more  farms,  more 
villages,  more 


"  Wains  oxen-dra\ni, 
Laden  with  grapes,  and  dropping  rosy  wine ;" 

and  presently  we  pass  a  blind  beggar  sitting  by  a 
roadside  cross,  who  asks  charity  in  the  name  of 
the  Blessed  Mary. 

Thus  the  day  wanes,  and,  toward  afternoon, 
we  reach  a  famous  vineyard  of  the  Muscat  grape, 
where  the  vigmrons  load  our  carriage  with  arm- 
fuls  of  the  perfumed  fruit.  Here  the  cottages 
are  more  than  ever  Italian,  with  tiled  roofs,  and 
jutting  eaves,  and  ingots  of  Indian  com  festooned 
about  the  upper  casements.  Here,  also,  the 
wild  peaks  of  the  Diablerets  come  into  sight 
— grim  sentinels  of  the  legendary  Inferno  of  the 
Vallaisan  peasant. 

And  now,  as  the  sun  sinks  westward,  we  hear 
the  chiming  of  the  chapel-bells  far  away,  and  see 
bands  of  vintagers  trudging  wearily  home  ;  and 
still  the^long  road  lies  before  us,  bordered  by 
tremulous  poplars,  dusty,  direct,  interminable  as 
ever !  Being  by  this  time  very  weary,  I  nestle 
down  "  like  a  tired  child,"  in  my  husband's  arms, 
and  implore  to  be  amused ;  so  Hugh  proceeds 
to  ransack  th^  dusty  storehouse  of  his  memory, 
bringing  forth  now  an  anecdote  of  one  who  was 
buried  alive  by  a  landslip  among  the  Diablerets — 
now  an  incident  of  his  own  travels — now  a  weird 
Hungarian  legend  of  a  vampire-priest  who  slaked 
his  fearful  thirst  upon  the  fairest  of  the  province, 
and  was  stabbed  at  last  upon  the  steps  of  his 
own  altar."  Thus  the  tender  gloom  of  early  twi- 
light steals  over  the  landscape.  Thus  the  first 
pale  stars  come  forth  overhead.  Thus,  loving 
and  beloved,  we  journey  on  together  toward  that 
still  distant  point  where  yonder  solitary  tower 
keeps  watch  above  the  village  of  Martigny. 


We  are  in  Italy.  The  snows  of  St.  Bernard 
and  the  plains  of  Piedmont  are  passed.  We 
have  visited  Turin,  the  most  symmetrical  and 
monotonous  of  cities ;  Alessandria,  the  dullest  ; 
and  Genoa,  where  hail  and  sunshine  succeeded 
each  other  with  every  hour  of  the  day.  Now  it 
is  fine  again ;  but  clear  and  cold,  and  we  are 
traveling  by  easy  stages  along  the  delicious  Hi- 
viera.  All  day  long,  we  have  the  blue  sea  be- 
side us.  At  night,  we  put  up  at  some  little  town 
in  a  nook  of  sandy  bay,  and  are  lulled  to  sleep 
by  the  sobbing  of  the  waves.  Sometimes,  if  the 
morning  be  very  bright  and  warm,  we  breakfast 
on  the  terrace  in  front  of  our  osteria,  and  watch 
the  fishing-boats  standing  out  to  sea,  and  the 
red-capped  urchins  on  the  beach.  Sometimes, 
as  we  are  in  the  mood  for  loitering,  we  do  not 
care  to  go  farther  than  twelve  or  fifteen  miles 
in  the  day  ;  and  so  I  spend  long  hours  climbing 
among  the  cliflfs,  or  coasting  hither  and  thither 
in  a  tiny  felucca  with  fantastic  sails. 

"  Truly,"  says  Hugh,  as  we  sit  one  afternoon 
upon  a  "sea-girt  promontory,"  watching  the 
gradual  crimson  of  the  sunset,  "  Plutarch  was  a 
man  of  taste." 

"  Plutarch !"  I  repeat,  roused  from  my 
dreamy  reverie.     "  Why  so  ?" 

"  Because  he  has  somewhere  observed,  that  'on 
land,  our  pleasantest  journeys  are  those  beside 
the  sea ;  and  that  at  sea,  no  voyage  is  so  delight- 
ful as  a  cruise  along  the  coast,'  And  he  is 
right.  Contrast  and  combination  —  these  are  the 
first  elements  of  the  picturesque.  Salvator  Rosa 
knew  well  the  relative  value  of  land  and  sea, 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


103 


and,  whatever  his  faults,  made  a  wise  use  of  both. 
I  am  often  reminded  of  his  pictures  by  the 
scenery  about  us !" 

"Why,  Hugh,  I  have  heard  you  condemn 
Salvator  Rosa  by  the  hour  together  !" 

"  Yes,  for  his  blue  mountains  and  his  unnatural 
skies  ;  for  everything,  in  short,  save  the  choice 
of  his  subjects,  and  the  tone  that  time  has  helped 
to  give  them.  See  those  overhanging  cliffs,  and 
that  natural  arch  of  rock  above  the  road ;  could 
he  have  painted  that,  think  you  ?  Or  yonder 
village  with  its  open  campanile^  and  background 
of  ilex  groves  sloping  almost  to  the  water's  edge  ? 
But  this  reminds  me,  dear,  that  you  have  not 
made  a  single  sketch  since  we  left  Paris  !" 
"  I  have  been  very  idle,  it  is  true." 
"Extremely  idle!  Come,  you  shall  do  pen- 
ance to-morrow  morning,  and  make  me  a  sketch 
from  this  very  spot ;  taking  in  that  fragment  of 
red  cliff,  that  group  of  fan-palms,  and  that 
exquisite  cove  with  the  old  broken  boat  dfawu 
up  upon  the  beach  !  The  coloring  of  that  rock, 
Barbarina,  with  the  dark  cacti  growing  out  of 
every  cliff,  is  a  study  in  itself!" 

"  Yes ;  but  you  would  do  it  as  well,  and,  per- 
haps, more  patiently  than  I.      Do  you  never 
(ijaw  now,  Hugh  ?" 
"  Seldom  or  never." 

"  And  yet  you  are  a  true  artist.  I  have  not 
forgotten  those  great  folios  full  of  sketches  at 
Broomhill !  They  were  in  sad  disorder,  too — 
Algiers  and  Brighton,  the  Thames  and  the  Nile, 
Devonshire  and  the  Andes,  all  thrown  together 
in  most  admired  disorder,  I  shall  regulate  them 
when  we  go  home,  Hugh  —  ah,  how  strange  it 
will  seem,  after  so  many,  many  years  !" 

"Yes,"  replies  my  husband,  gloomily,  "you 

were  a  little  girl  then,  and  I Heigho  1 

Tempora  mutantur, " 
"  And  then  I  shall  see  my  aunt  once  more^ 

and " 

"  Your  aunt,  child !"  says  Hugh,  turning  his 
face  away.  "  Pshaw !  she  has  forgotten  you." 
"I  know  it.  She  has  cast  me  out  of  her 
heart,  for  a  sin  not  my  own.  That  is  very  bitter ; 
and  yet  I  believe  I  love  her  as  dearly  as  ever  I 
I  have  been  tempted  a  thousand  times  to  write 
to  her  ;  and  then  again  I  have  checked  the  im- 
pulse, believing  that  —  that  she  cares  for  me  no 
longer."  . 

"  My  poor  little  Barbara !" 
"  Hush !     I  am  not  poor  now,  dearest  I    I  am 
rich  —  very  rich,  and  very  happy." 

And,  with  this,  I  nestle  closer  to  his  side,  and 
the  dear,  protecting  arm  is  folded  round  me. 

"  Can  you  not  guess,  Hugh,  why  I  have  been 
80  very,  very  idle  ?  "  I  whisper,  presently. 
"Nay,  little  wife,  am  I  a  sorcerer?" 
"Yes  —  no — sometimes  I  think  you  are!" 
"  Well,  then,  I  am  a  sorcerer  no  longer.     I 
have  broken  my  wand,  burned  my  book,  dismiss- 
ed my  goblin  messengers,  and  become  a  mere 
mortal,  Hke  yourself.     Eh  hien^  why  is  it  ?" 

"  Because  —  because  I  am  too  happy  to  sketch. 
Too  happy  for  even  Art  to  make  me  happier  I" 
"  My  darling !" 

"  And  —  and  Love  is  so  new  to  me,  Hugh, 
and  life  so  fair ;  and  I  feel  as  if  to  be  grateful 
and  happy  were  occupation  enough." 

"  And  so  it  is,  wife  —  so  it  is  !  The  gods  do 
not  often  come  down  from  Olympus ;  but  when 
they  do,  let  us  entertain  them  royally,  and  put 
all  else  aside  to  do  them  honor  !" 


"  But  —  but  sometimes,  Hugh,  when  I  con- 
sider what  a  perfect  love  is  ours,  I  tremble,  and^ 
ask  myself,  '  shall  I  always  be  so  happy  ?'  " 

"  Ah,  Barbara,  that  is  a  question  that  we  all 
ask  once,  p)erhaps  twice,^  in  life.  But  who  can 
answer  it  ?  Neither  you  nor  I !  The  present  is 
ours  —  let  ua  be"  content  with  it." 

"  I  could  not  be  content  with  it,  Hugh,  unless 
I  accepted  it  as  a  prophecy  of  the  future." 

"  Nor  I,  dear  wife  —  nor  1 ;  but  I  believe  that, 
with  God's  help,  it  will  be  so.  And  yet  I  have 
learned  to  mistrust  the  morrow,,  to  mock  the 
past,  and  to  value  the  present  moment  at  no 
more  than  its  worth  I  These  are  hard  lessons^ 
love,  and  I  have  not  yet  unlearnted  them  !" 

"  Hush,"  I  cry,  shudderingly.  "  To  doubt  onr 
morrow  is  to  blaspheme  our  love  !" 

"Child,  I  do  not  doubt  —  I  speculate;  and 
this  only  because  I  am  so  happy.  Because  I 
would  fain  stay  the  glory  of  the  passing  hour, 
and,  like  one  of  old,  bid  the  Sun  and  Moon 
stand  still  above  our  heads.  But  I  can  not  —  I 
cannot!" 

"Alas!  no.  We  must  grow  gray,  and  old, 
and  change  as  others  change  ;  but  what  of  that  ? 
We  shall  love  on  to  the  last,  and  die,  as  we  have 
lived,  together.'' 

"  Dear  love,  we  will !  Amo^  Amas,  Amamus^ 
Amaverimus.  Ah,  what  a  pleasant  verb,  and 
how  readily  we  learn  to  conjugate  it  I" 

By  this  time  the  sunset  has  faded  quite  away, 
and  the  vesper-bell  chimes  from  the  campanile 
on  the  hight ;  so  we  rise  and  go  homeward  by 
the  beach,  and  find  our  landlady  sitting  on  the 
threshold  of  her  bouse  with  her  infant  at  her 
breast,  like  one  oi  Raffaelle's  Madonnas.  With- 
in, a  little  brazen  hand-lamp,  by  which  Virgil 
might  have  sat  to  write,  half  lights  our  dusky 
chamber.  The  window  is  open  and  looks  upon 
the  sea ;  and  beside  it  stands  a  table  with  our 
frugal  supper.  How  sweet  is  the  flavor  of  our 
omelette  to-night,  and  how  excellent  this  flask 
of  Orvieto  !  Like  children  on  a  holiday,  we 
find  every  thing  delicious,  and  turn  all  things 
"  to  favor  and  to  prettiness."  The  glorious 
world  itself  seems  made  for  our  delight;  and 
the  phenomena  of  nature  appear,  to  our  happy 
egotism,  like  spectacles  played  off  to  give  us 
pleasure.  For  us  the  moon  rises  yonder,  and 
the  silver  ripples  break  upon  the  beach — for  ua 
the  evening  air  makes  music  in  the  pines,  and 
wafts  past  our  casement  the  last  lingering  notes 
of  the  Ave  Maria ! 

"  Ah,  me  !  how  sweet  is  love  itself  possessed. 
When  but  love's  shadows  are  so  rich  in  joy  l*^ 


Time  went  on,  and  the  New  Year  found  us 
dwelling  in  the  shadow  of  that  marble  tower 
that  leans  forever  above  the  Holy  Field  of 
Pisa.  We  liked  the  strange,  old,  lonely  city, 
and  lingered  there  for  some  weeks,  sketching 
the  monuments  in  the  Campo  Santo,  wandering 
by  moonlight  among  the  grass-grown  streets  and 
silent  palaces,  and  watching  the  sluggish  Arno 
winding  from  bridge  to  bridge,  on  its  way  toward 
the  sea.  At  length,  as  February  came,  the  calm, 
bright  skies  and  distant  hills  tempted  us  forth 
again ;  so  we  resumed  our  pleasant  traveling 
life ;  turning  aside,  as  heretofore,  when  it 
pleased  us,  from  the  beaten  track  ;  pausing  on 
the  road  to  sketch  a  ruin,  or  a  lake ;  sleeping 
sometimes  in  a  town,  and  sometimes  at  a  farm- 


104 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


house  among  olive-groves ;  and  loitering  away 
our  happy  time,  as  though,  like  Sir  Philip  Syd- 
ney's Arcadian  shepherd-boy,  we  should  "never 
grow  old." 

By  and  by,  however,  there  comes  a  day  long 
to  be  remembered.  Last  night  we  were  upon  the 
sea,  having  taken  a  felucca  at  Orbitello,  This 
morning  we  are  slowly  traversing  a  brown  and 
sterile  region.  Our  road  lies  among  shapeless  hil- 
locks, shaggy  with  bush  and  brier.  Far  away  on 
one  side  gleams  a  line  of  soft,  blue  sea — on  the 
other,  he  mountains  as  blue,  but  more  distant. 
Not  a  sound  stirs  the  stagnant  air.  Not  a  tree, 
not  a  housetop  breaks  the  wide  monotony.  The 
dust  lies  beneath  our  wheels  like  a  carpet,  and 
follows  us  Uke  a  cloud.  The  grass  is  yellow ; 
the  weeds  are  parched ;  and  where  there  have 
been  wayside  pools,  the  ground  is  cracked,  and 
dry.  Now  we  pass  a  crumbling  fragment  of 
something  that  may  have  been  a  tomb  or  a 
temple,  centuries  ago.  Now  we  come  upon  a  lit- 
tle wild-eyed  peasant-boy,  keeping  goats  among 
the  ruins,  like  Giotto  of  old.  Presently  a  buf- 
falo lifts  his  black  mane  above  the  brow  of  a 
neighboring  hillock,  and  rushes  away  before  we 
can  do  more  than  point  to  the  spot  on  which 
"we  saw  it.  Thus  the  day  attains  its  noon,  and 
the  sun  hangs  overhead  like  a  brazen  shield, 
briUiant,  but  cold.  Thus,  too,  we  reach  the 
brow  of  a  long  and  steep  ascent,  where  our 
driver  pulls  up  to  rest  his  weary  beast.  The 
sea  has  now  faded  almost  out  of  sight  —  the 
mountains  look  larger  and  nearer,  with  streaks 
of  snow  upon  their  summits — the  Campagna 
reaches  on  and  on  and  shows  no  sign  of  limit 
or  of  verdure — while,  in  the  midst  of  the  clear 
air,  half  way,  as  it  would  seem,  between  us  and 
the  purple  Sabine  range,  rises  one  solemn,  soli- 
tary dome.     Can  it  be  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's  ? 

I  have  been  anticipating  this  for  hours,  look- 
ing for  it  from  the  top  of  every  hill,  and  re- 
hearsing in  my  own  mind  all  the  effect  that  it 
must  produce  upon  me;  and  yet,  now  that  I 
have  it  actually  before  my  eyes,  it  comes  upon 
me  like  something  strange,  sudden,  unreal ! 

"  Yes,  little  wife,"  says  Hugh,  answering  m;^ 
unspoken  thought,  "  Rome  lies,  unseen,  in  the 
shadow  of  that  dome  —  Rome,  and  the  Seven 
Hills  !  That  mountain  to  our  left  is  the  classi- 
cal Soracte.  Yonder,  amid  the  misty  hollows 
of  those  remotest  Apennines,  nestle  Tivoli  and 
Tusculum.  All  around  us  reaches  the  battle- 
ground of  centuries,  the  wide  and  wild  Cam- 
pagna, every  rood  of  which  is  a  chapter  in  the 
history  of  the  world !" 

I  hear,  but  can  not 'speak;  for  I  am  thinking 
of  Raffaelle  and  Michael  Angelo,  and  the  trea- 
sures, of  the  Vatican. 

"How often,"  continues  my  husband,  musing- 
ly, "  have  the  barbaric  foes  of  early  Rome 
paused  thus  at  first  sight  of  the  Eternal  City — 
paused,  perchance,  upon  this  very  spot,  with 
clash  of  sword  and  spear,  eager  for  spoil,  and 
thirsting  for  vengeance  !  And  how  often — ah ! 
how  often,  may  not  the  victorious  legions  of  the 
Republic  and  the  Empire  have  here  staid  the 
torrent  of  their  homeward  march,  to  greet  with 
shouts  of  triumph  those  distant  towers  where  the 
Senate  awaited  them  with  honors,  and  their  wives 
and  children  watched  for  their  return !  Faith, 
Barbai-a,  I  never  come  to  Rome  without  wishing 
that  I  had  hved  in  the  period  of  her  glory !" 


"  Absurd !  You  would  have  been  dead  hun- 
dreds of  years  by  this  time." 

"  A  man  can  live  but  once,  petite  ;  and  'tis 
hard  that  he  may  not,  at  least,  make  choice  of 
his  century.  Now,  for  my  part,  I  would  give  up 
all  that  has  happened  since,  only  to  have  heard 
Mark  Antony's  speech  over  the  dead  body  of 
Ca3sar,  and  to  have  dined  with  Cicero  at  his 
villa  in  Tusculum !" 

"  Whilst  /  prefer  to  read  Shakspeare's  ver- 
sion of  the  former,  and  to  picnic  at  Tusculum 
with  Farquhar  of  Broomhill!" 

"  That  is  because  times  are  degenerate,  Bar- 
barina !"  replies  Hugh,  laughingly.  "  Had  you 
been  educated  at  Magdalen  College,  Oxford,  in- 
stead of  at  Zollenstrasse-am-Main,  you  would 
have  had  better  taste,  and  more  respect  for  the 
classics.  "  Oh^  Roma,  Roma,  non  e  piu  come 
era  prima  P  Have  I  not  seen  a  traveling  circus 
in  the  Mausoleum  of  Augustus,  a  French  gar- 
rison in  the  Mole  of  Hadrian,  and  a  Roman 
audience  at  a  puppet-show  ?" 

We  have  now  lost  sight  of  St.  Peter's,  and  en- 
tered upon  a  narrow,  dusty  road,  with  molder- 
ing  white  walls  on  either  side.  'Tis  a  dreary 
approach  to  a  great  city,  and  for  more  than 
three  miles  is  never  varied,  unless  by  a  wayside 
trough,  a  ruined  shed,  a  solitary  juniper  tree,  or 
a  desolate  albergo  with  grated  windows,  and  a 
rough  fresco  of  a  couple  of  flasks  and  a  bunch 
of  grapes  painted  over  the  door.  Then  comes 
a  steep  descent,  a  sharp  bend  to  the  right,  and 
the  great  dome  again  rises  suddenly  at  the  end 
of  the  road,  so  near  that  it  seems  as  if  I  might  ' 
almost  touch  it  with  my  hand !  And  now  the 
gates  of  Rome  are  close  before  us  ;  and  a  cart 
comes  through,  driven  by  a  tawny  Roman  peas- 
ant who  guides  his  oxen  standing,  like  a  char- 
ioteer of  old.  Now  we  pass  the  piazza  and 
colonnade  of  St.  Peter's,  and  the  Castle  of  St. 
Angelo,  with  St.  Michael  poised  above  in  ever- 
lasting bronze — ah,  how  well  I  seem  to  know 
it!  Then  the  bridge  guarded  by  angels ;  and* 
the  Tiber,  the  classic  Tiber  that  Clelia  swam ! 
Alas  !  can  this  be  it — this  brown  and  sluggish 
stream,  low  sunk  between  steep  banks  of  mud 
and  ooze?  Ay,  it  is  indeed  i\\Qflavus  Tiheri- 
nus,  the  golden  river  of  the  poets  ;  and  these 
narrow  streets,  these  churches,  palaces,  and 
hovels  are  Rome  ! 


CHAPTER  XXXYII. 

ROME. 

I  AM  in  Rome  !  the  City  that  so  long 
Reigned  absolute,  the  mistress  of  the  world ; 
The  mighty  vision  that  the  prophets  saw, 
And  trembled." 


In  Rome,  the  artist  feels  impelled  to  stay  for- 
ever and  be  at  rest.  For  him,  other  cities  lose 
their  old  attractions ;  modern  art,  progress, 
personal  ambition,  cease  alike  to  be  of  import- 
ance in  his  eyes ;  effort  and  emulation  pass 
from  him  like  mere  dreams ;  "  he  walks  amid  a 
world  of  art  in  ruins,"  and  would  fain  loiter 
away  the  remainder  of  his  days  among  the 
wrecks  of  this  antique  world.  Nor  does  he  even 
feel  that  a  life  thus  spent  were  unworthy  of  the 
genius  that  is  in  him.  Self-forgetting,  reveren- 
tial, absorbed,  he  stands  in  the  presence  of  the 
"  Transfiguration,"  like  a  mortal    before    the 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


106 


Gods.  If  ever  he  chances  to  look  back  upon 
his  former  aspirations,  it  is  with  a  sense  of 
inferiority  that  is  neither  humiliation,  nor  envy, 
nor  despair ;  but  only  lassitude  of  spirit,  and 
the  willing  homage  of  the  soul.  Thus  he  comes 
to  live  more  in  the  past  than  the  present,  more 
in  the  ideal  than  the  real.  Thus,  too,  all  that  is 
not  Rome  gradually  loosens  its  hold  upon  his 
heart  and  his  imagination.  He  feels  that  certain 
statues  and  pictures  are  henceforth  necessary  to 
him,  and  that  certain  ruins  have  become  almost 
a  part  of  his  being.  He  could  scarcely  live 
away  from  the  Vatican,  or  the  Campidoglio,  or 
the  sweet  sad  face  of  Beatrice  Cenci  in  the 
Barberini  palace  ;  and  not  to  be  within  reach  of 
Caracalla's  Baths,  or  the  solemn  corridors  of  the 
Colosseum,  would  be  exile  unbearable.  In  this 
mood,  he  suffers  the  years  to  go  by  unheeded, 
and  voluntarily  blots  his  own  name  from  the 
book  of  the  Future  ;  for  Art  is  to  him  a  religion, 
and  he,  like  a  monastic  devotee,  is  contcht  to 
substitute  worship  for  work. 

But  for  the  strong  tie  binding  me  to  the 
present,  and  but  for  that  love  which  had  of  late 
become  more  to  me  than  art  or  fame,  I  should 
have  yielded  utterly  to  the  influences  of  the 
place.  As  it  was,  the  days  and  weeks  seemed  to 
glide  past  in  one  unceasing  round  of  delight  and 
wonder,  I  was  never  weary  of  villas,  palaces, 
and  galleries ;  of  Raffaelle's  violinist,  or  the 
dying  gladiator,  or  the  Archangel  of  Guido  in 
the  little  church  of  the  Cappucini.  I  filled  my 
sketch-book  with  outlines,  and  spent  whole 
days  in  the  Halls  of  the  Vatican,  copying 
the  figures  on  a  frieze,  or  the  bassi  relievi 
of  an  antique  sarcophagus.  In  these  studies 
Hugh  was  my  critic,  associate,  and  guide; 
and,  although  his  practical  knowledge  fell  short 
of  mine,  I  learned  much  from  him.  His  taste 
was  perfect:  his  judgment  faultless.  He  was 
familiar  with  every  school,  and  had  all  the  best 
pictures  in  the  world  by  heart.  The  golden 
glooms  of  Rembrandt,  the  "  rich  impasting"  of 
Van  Eyck,  the  grand  touch  of  Michael  Angelo, 
were  alike  "  things  known  and  inimitable"  to  his 
unerring  eye.  He  detected  a  copy  at  first  sight ; 
assigned  names  and  dates  without  the  help  of  a 
catalogue ;  and  recognized  at  a  glance 

"  Whate'er  Lorraine  light  touched  with  soft'ning  hue, 
Or  savage  Rosa  dashed,  or  learned  Poussin  drew !" 

To  the  acquisition  of  his  critical  knowledge  he 
had,  in  short,  devoted  as  much  study  as  might 
have  fitted  him  for  a  profession ;  and  to  use  his 
own  words,  had  spent  as  many  years  of  life  in 
learning  to  appreciate  a  picture  as  he  need  have 
spent  in  learning  to  paint  it.  Thus  I  acquired 
from  him  much  that  had  hitherto  been  wanting 
to  my  education,  and  made  daily  progress  in  the 
paths  of  art.  Thus,  like  many  another,  I  could 
have  gone  on  forever  from  gallery  to  gallery, 
from  church  to  church,  from  palace  to  palace, 
dreaming  my  life  away  in  one  long  reverie  of 
admiration  before 

"  The  grandeur  that  was  Greece,  and  the  glory  that  was 
Rome." 

We  lived  on  the  Pincian  Hill,  close  by  the 
gardens  of  the  French  Academy.  Far  and  wide 
beneath  our  windows  lay  the  spires  and  house- 
tops of  the  Eternal  city,  with  the  Doria  pines 
standing  out  against  the  Western  horizon.  At 
the  back  we  had  a  loffgia  overlooking  the  garden- 


studios  of  the  French  school,  with  the  planta- 
tions of  the  Borghese  Villa  and  the  snow-streak- 
ed Apennines  beyond.  Ah,  what  glorious 
sights  and  sounds  we  had  from  those  upper 
windows  on  the  Pincian  hill !  What  pomp  and 
pageantry  of  cloud !  What  mists  of  golden  dawn  I 
What  flashes  of  crimson  sunset  upon  distant 
peaks  !  How  often  "  we  heard  the  chimes  at  mid- 
night," rung  out  from  three  hundred  churches, 
and  were  awakened  in  the  early  morning  by  mili- 
tary music,  and  the  tramp  of  French  troops  march- 
ing to  parade !  After  breakfast,  we  used  to  go 
down  into  the  city  to  see  some  public  or  private 
collection  ;  or,  map  in  hand,  trace  the  site  of  a 
temple  or  a  forum.  Sometimes  we  made  pious 
pilgrhnages  to  places  famous  in  art  or  history, 
such  as  the  house  of  Rienzi,  the  tomb  of 
Raffaelle,  or  the  graves  of  our  poets  in  the 
Protestant  Burial-ground.  Sometimes,  when  the 
morning  was  wet  or  dull,  we  passed  a  few 
pleasant  hours  in  the  studios  of  the  Via  Mar- 
gutta,  where  the  artists  "  most  do  congregate  ;" 
or  loitered  our  time  away  among  the  curiosity 
shops  of  the  Via  Condotti.  Later  in  the  day, 
our  horses  were  brought  round,  and  we  rode  or 
drove  beyond  the  walls,  toward  Antemnae  or 
Veil ;  or  along  the  meadows  behind  the  Vati- 
can ;  or  out  by  the  Fountain  of  Egeria,  in  sight 
of  those  ruined  Aqueducts  which  thread  the 
brown  wastes  of  the  Campagna,  like  a  funeral 
procession  tui-ned  to  stone.  Then,  when  evening 
came,  we  piled  the  logs  upon  the  hearth  and 
read  aloud  by  turns  ;  or  finished  the  morning's 
sketches.  Now  and  then,  if  it  were  moonlight, 
we  went  out  again ;  and  sometimes,  though 
seldom,  dropped  in  for  an  hour  at  the  Opera,  or 
the  Theatre  Metastasio, 

Oh  !  pleasant  morning  of  youth,  when  these 
things  made  the  earnest  business  of  our  lives  — 
when  the  choice  of  a  bronze  or  a  cameo  occu- 
pied our  thoughts  for  half  a  day,  and  the  pur- 
chase of  a  mosaic  was  matter  for  our  gravest 
consideration  —  when  the  reading  of  a  poem 
made  us  sad ;  or  the  sight  of  a  painting  quick- 
ened the  beating  of  our  hearts  ;  or  the  finding 
of  some  worthless  relic  filled  us  with  delight! 
We  could  not  then  conceive  that  we  should  ever 
know  more  serious  cares  than  these,  or  take 
half  the  interest  in  living  men  and  women  that 
we  took  in  the  Scipios  and  Servilii  of  old.  We 
loved  Rome  as  if  it  were  our  native  city,  and 
thought  there  could  be  no  place  in  the  world 
half  so  enchanting ;  but  that  was  because  we 
were  so  happy-in  it,  and  so  solitary.  We  lived 
only  in  the  past,  and  for  each  other.  We  had 
no  friends,  and  cared  to  make  none.  Excepting 
as  we  were  ourselves  concerned,  the  present 
possessed  but  little  interest  for  us ;  and  dwelling 
amid  the  tombs  and  palaces  of  a  vanished  race, 
we  seemed  to  live  doubly  isolated  from  our  fel- 
low-men. 

Thus  the  winter  months  glided  away,  and  the 
spring-time  came,  and  Lent  was  kept  and  ended. 
Thus  Rome  made  holiday  at  Easter ;  and  the 
violets  grew  thicker  than  ever  on  the  grave  of 
Keats ;  and  the  primroses  lay  in  clusters  of  pale 
gold  about  the  cypress  glades  of  Monte  Mario. 
Thus,  too,  we  extended  our  rambles  for  many  a 
mile  beyond  the  city  walls,  trampling  the  wild- 
flowers  of  the  Campagna ;  tracking  the  antique 
boundaries  of  Latium  and  Etruria;  mapping 
out  the  battle-fields  of  the  Eneid ;  and  visiting 


106 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


the  sites  of  cities  whose  history  has  been  for 
long  centuries  confounded  with  tradition,  and 
whose  temples  were  dedicated  to  a  religion  of 
which  the  poetry  and  the  ruins  alone  survive. 

It  was  indeed  a  happy,  happy  time  ;  and  the 
days  went  by  as  if  they  had  been  set  to  music ! 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII. 

CARPE  DIEM. 

"  Deserted  rooms  of  luxury  and  state, 
That  old  magnificence  had  richly  furnished 
With  pictures,  cabinets  of  ancient  date, 
And  carvings  gilt  and  burnished." 

Thomas  Hood. 

I  NOW  hardly  know  in  what  way  the  idea  first 
came  to  me  ;  but,  somehow  or  another,  I  began 
about  this  time  to  suspect  that  my  husband  had 
no  wish  to  return  to  Broomhill.  The  discovery 
was  not  sudden.  It  dawned  upon  me  slowly, 
vaguely,  imperceptibly  ;  and  was  less  the  result 
of  my  own  penetration  than  of  evidence  accu- 
mulated from  a  thousand  trifles. 

He  never  named  Broomhill,  or  any  circum- 
stance that  might  lead  to  the  subject.  If  I 
spoke  of  it,  he  was  silent.  If  I  exacted  a  re- 
ply, he  gave  it  as  briefly  as  possible,  and  turned 
the  conversation.  When  sometimes  we  talked, 
as  lovers  will,  of  how  this  love  should  run 
through  all  our  days,  like  a  golden  thread  in  the 
rough  woof  of  life,  he  avoided  all  mention  of 
that  ancestral  home  which  should  have  been  the 
scene  of  our  romance ;  but  laid  it  ever  under 
foreign  skies.  Sometimes  he  talked  of  buying 
land  in  Switzerland,  and  cultivating  a  model 
farm.  Sometimes  of  purchasing  a  villa  at  Cas- 
tellamare  ;  or  of  building  one  upon  the  borders 
of  Lake  Como ;  or  of  buying  some  old  deserted 
palazzo  in  the  environs  of  Rome,  and  fitting  it 
up  in  the  Renaissance  style.  Then,  again,  he 
would  have  a  project  for  the  extension  of  our 
tour  through  Hungary,  Bavaria,  and  the  Danu- 
bian  provinces ;  or  propose  to  equip  a  vessel 
for  a  lengthened  cruise  in  Mediterranean  waters 
touching  at  all  the  chief  ports  of  the  Turkish 
and  Dalmatian  coasts,  threading  the  mazes  of 
the  Isles  of  Greece,  and  ending  with  the  Nile 
or  the  Holy  Land.  At  first  I  only  used  to  smile 
at  these  restless  fancies,  and  attribute  them  to 
his  old  wandering  habits  ;  but  a  time  came,  by 
and  by,  when  I  could  smile  no  longer  —  when  a 
strange  uneasy  doubt  stole  gradually  upon  me, 
and  I  began  to  wonder  whether  there  might  not 
be,  in  all  this,  some  purpose  of  intentional  de- 
lay ;  some  design  to  keep  longer  and  longer 
away,  and,  perhaps,  never  to  return. 

How  this  doubt  deepened  into  certainty,  and 
in  what  manner  it  affected  me,  are  transitions  of 
thought  and  feeling  which  I  now  find  it  difficult 
to  trace.  I  only  know  that  I  was  bitterly  dis- 
appointed ;  perhaps  not  altogether  without  rea- 
son, and  yet  more  so  than  the  occasion  warranted. 
In  the  first  place,  my  expatriation  had  already 
lasted  many  years.  I  longed  to  be  once  more 
surrounded  by  cheery  English  faces,  and  to  hear 
the  pleasant  English  tongue  spoken  about  me. 
In  the  next  place,  I  felt  hurt  that  my  love  was 
not  enough  to  make  my  husband  happy,  even 
under  our  gray  skies  in  "  duller  Britain."  Nay, 
I  was  half  jealous  of  these  foreign  climes  that 
had  grown  so  dear  to  him,  and  of  these  habits 


which  had  become  necessities.  Besides,  Broom- 
hill, of  all  places  in  the  land,  was  now  my  lawful 
home.  Broomhill,  of  which  I  had  been  dream- 
ing all  these  years.  Broomhill,  where,  as  a  little 
child,  I  had  contracted  the  first  and  last  love  of 
my  life  !  It  was  no  wonder,  surely,  that  I  yearned 
to  go  home  to  it  across  the  Channel  —  and  yet 
I  might  have  been  content  with  the  sweet 
present !  Except  Hugh,  no  one  loved  or  cared 
for  me;  and  I  had  better  have  accepted  my 
happiness  per  se,  without  a  care  or  desire  beyond 
it.  Ah,  why  did  I  not  ?  Why,  when  I  had  most 
reason  to  be  glad,  did  I  suffer  myself  to  be 
tormented  by  the  phantasm  of  a  trouble  ?  What 
mattered  it  whether  we  dwelt  in  England  or  Italy, 
Rome  or  Broomhill,  so  that  we  were  only 
together  ?  He  was  with  me  ;  he  loved  me  ;  and 
where  love  is,  heaven  is,  if  we  would  but  believe 
it !  Eve  made  Adam's  paradise,  and  Robinson 
Crusoe's  isle  was  a  desert  only  because  he  lived 
in  it  alone.  But,  alas !  it  is  ever  thus.  We  cavil 
at  the  blessing  possessed,  and  grasp  at  the  shadow 
to  come.  We  feel  first,  and  reason  afterward ; 
only  we  seldom  begin  to  reason  till  it  is  too  late  ! 

One  day,  as  the  spring  was  rapidly  merging 
into  summer,  we  took  a  carriage  and  drove  out 
from  Rome  to  Albano.  It  was  quite  early  when 
we  started.  The  grassy  mounds  of  the  CampO 
Vaccino  were  crowded  with  bullock-trucks  as 
we  went  down  the  Sacred  Road  ;  and  the  brown 
walls  of  the  Colosseum  were  touched  with  golden 
sunshine.  The  same  shadows  that  had  fallen 
daily  for  centuries  in  the  same  places,  darkened 
the  windings  of  the  lower  passages.  The  blue 
day  shone  through  the  uppermost  arches,  and 
the  shrubs  that  grew  upon  them  waved  to  and 
fro  in  the  morning  breeze.  A  monk  was  preach- 
ing in  the  midst  of  the  arena ;  and  a  French 
military  band  was  practicing  upon  the  open 
ground  behind  the  building. 

"  Oh,  for  a  living  Caesar  to  expel  these  Gauls  I " 
muttered  Hugh,  aiming  the  end  of  his  cigar  at 
the  spurred  heels  of  a  dandy  little  sous -lieutenant 
who  was  sauntering  "delicately,"  like  King 
Agag,  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  road. 

Passing  out  by  the  San  Giovanni  gate,  we 
entered  upon  those  broad  wastes  that  lie  to  the 
south-east  of  the  city.  Going  forward  thence, 
with  the  aqueducts  to  our  left,  and  the  old  Ap- 
pian  way,  lined  with  crumbling  sepulchers,  reach- 
ing for  miles  in  one  unswerving  line  to  our  far 
right,  we  soon  left  Rome  behind.  Faint  patches 
of  vegetation  gleamed  here  and  there,  like  streaks 
of  light ;  and  nameless  ruins  lay  scattered  broad- 
cast over  the  bleak  slopes  of  this  "  most  desolate 
region."  Sometimes  we  came  upon  a  primitive 
buUock-wagon,  or  a  peasant  driving  an  ass  laden 
with  green  boughs ;  but  these  signs  of  life  were 
rare.  Presently  we  passed  the  remains  of  a 
square  temple,  with  Corinthian  pilasters  —  then 
a  drove  of  shaggy  ponies  —  then  a  little  truck 
with  a  tiny  pent-house  reared  on  one  side  of  the 
seat,  to  keep  the  driver  from  the  sun  —  then  a 
flock  of  rusty  sheep  — a  stagnant  pool  —  a  clump 
of  stunted  trees  —  a  conical  thatched  hut  —  a 
round  sepulcher,  half-buried  in  the  soil  of  ages 
—  a  fragment  of  broken  arch ;  and  so  on,  for 
miles  and  miles,  across  the  barren  plain.  By 
and  by,  we  saw  a  drove  of  buffaloes  scouring 
along  toward  the  aqueducts,  followed  by  a 
mounted  herdsman,  buskined  and  brown,  with 
his  lance  in  his  hand,  his  blue  cloak  floating 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


lor 


behind  him,  and  his  sombrero  down  upon  his 
brow  —  the  very  picture  of  a  Mexican  hunter. 

Now  the  Campagna  was  left  behind,  and 
Albano  stood  straight  before  us,  on  the  summit 
of  a  steep  and  weary  hill.  Low  lines  of  white- 
washed wall  bordered  the  road  on  either  side, 
inclosing  fields  of  fascine,  orchards,  olive- 
grounds,  and  gloomy  plantations  of  cypresses 
and  pines.  Next  came  a  range  of  sand-banks, 
with  cavernous  hollows  and  deep  undershadows ; 
next,  an  old  cinque-cento  gateway,  crumbling 
away  by  the  road  side ;  then  a  little  wooden  cross 
on  an  overhanging  crag  ;  then  the  sepulcher  of 
Pompey ;  and  then  the  gates  of  Albano,  through 
which  we  rattled  into  the  town,  and  up  to  the 
entrance  of  the  Hotel  de  Russie.  Here  we  tasted 
the  wine  that  Horace  praised,  and  lunched  in  a 
room  that  overlooked  a  brown  sea  of  Campagna, 
with  the  hazy  Mediterranean  on  the  farthest 
horizon,  and  the  tower  of  Corioli  standing  against 
the  clear  sky  to  our  left,  /^ 

By  and  by,  we  went  out  through  the  mai-ket- 
place,  and  up  a  steep  road  leading  to  the  lake. 
Ah,  how  well  I  remember  it !  How  well  I 
remember  that  table-land  of  rock  on  which  we 
stood,  with  Monte  Cavo  rising  high  before  us, 
and  the  blue  lake  lying  at  our  feet  in  a  steep 
basin  clothed  with  forests!  Scrambling  down 
tipon  a  kind  of  natural  terrace  several  feet  below, 
we  pushed  our  way  through  the  briers  and  found 
a  grassy  knoll  at  the  foot  of  an  ilex,  just  on  the 
margin  of  the  precipice.  Here  we  sat  sheltered 
from  the  sun,  with  the  placid  lake  below,  the 
mountains  above,  and  the  pines  of  Castel  Gon- 
dolfo  standing  like  sentinels  between  us  and  the 
landscape.  The  air  was  heavy  with  fragrance, 
and  a  golden  haze  hung  over  Rome.  We  had 
brought  sketch-books,  but  they  laj^^^untouched 
beside  us  on  the  grass.  The  scene  was  too  fair 
for  portraiture ;  and  all  that  we  could  do  was  to 
drink  deeply  of  its  poetry,  and  talk  from  time 
to  time  of  our  great  happiness. 

*'  'Twas  by  the  merest  chance  that  you  and  I 
ever  met  again,  love,"  said  Hugh,  taking  up  the 
broken  threads  of  our  conversation.  ' '  A  feather 
might  have  turned  the  scale  and  carried  me  direct 
to  St.  Petersburgh ;  and  then,  good  heavens ! 
what  a  miserable  wretch  I  should  have  been  to 
this  day !" 

"  A  good  angel  brought  me  to  you,  Hugh,"  I 
murmured,  leaning  my  head  against  his  shoulder. 
"  I  can  not  bear  to  think  that  we  might  never 
have  met.  I  can  not  believe  but  that  we  must 
some  day  have  come  face  to  face,  and  been 
happy !" 

"  Alas !  we  should  have  been  strangers, 
Barbara  mia.  "We  might  have  looked  in  each 
other's  eyes,  and  passed  on  for  evermore  !" 

"  Nay,  that  at  all  events  would  have  been  im- 
possible !     I  should  have  known yow  anywhere." 

"  Perhaps  so,  little  wife ;  but  time,  remember, 
has  changed  me  less  than  you.  You  have  jour- 
neyed all  the  way  from  Lilliput  to  Brobdignag ; 
whilst  I  have  only  grown  rougher,  browner,  and 
uglier  than  ever.  But  you  look  grave,  mignonne. 
What  have  I  said  to  vex  you  ?" 

'•'  Nothing,  dearest — and  yet — and  yet  I  am 
grieved  to  think  that  you  could  have  passed  me 
without  one  gleam  of  recognition.  Sui-ely  some 
old  thought  must  have  come  knocking  at  your 
heart — some  vague  picture  of  the  little  girl  who 
loved  you  so  dearly,  long  and  long  ago  !" 


My  husband  smiled,  and  laid  his  hand  upon 
my  head,  as  he  used  to  lay  it  in  that  far-off 
time. 

*'  Enfant  P'  he  said,  tenderly,  "  what  matters 
it  to  thee  or  me,  since  we  have  met,  and  are 
happy?  Think  what  it  would  have  been  had 
our  meeting  happened  many  a  year  to  come, 
and  happened  too  late  !" 

"  Or  if  all  things  had  come  to  pass  just  as  they 
did,  and  yet  you  had  not  cared  for  me  !  Oh, 
Hugh,  that  would  have  been  the  crudest  of 
all" 

'*  And  the  least  likely.  Why,  Barbara,  you 
came  to  me  at  the  time  when  I  most  needed 
you.  You  revived  my  trust  in  heaven,  and  my 
faith  in  man.  You  reconciled  me  to  the  present 
and  the  future ;  blotted  out  the  past,  and  turned 
to  wine  the  bitter  waters  of  my  life !  How, 
then,  could  I  choose  but  love  you  ?  Ay,  with 
every  pulse  of  my  heart,  and  every  nerve  of  my 
brain — with  my  hopes',  and  my  dreams,  and  aU 
that  is  worthiest  in  me  !  Hush  you  are  weep- 
ing !" 

"  For  joy,"  I  whispered,  brokenly ;  "  for  joy 
only.  Speak  to  me  thus  forever,  and  I  wiU 
listen  to  you  !" 

He  pressed  his  lips  upon  my  forehead,  and 
for  some  minutes  we  were  both  silent. 

"  Tell  me,"  I  said  at  length,  "  how  and  when 
you  first  began  to  love  me.  Did  it  come  to  you 
suddenly,  or  steal  imperceptibly  upon  your 
heart,  like  the  shadow  over  the  dial  ?" 

"  Neither,  and  yet  both,"  replied  he,  musingly. 
"I  never  knew  the  moment  when  it  first  befell  me; 
and  yet,  like  one  of  those  mysterious  isles  that 
are  upheaved  in  a  single  night  from  the  depths  of 
the  great  ocean,  it  rose  all  at  once  upon  my 
life,  and  became  my  Paradise.  Now  it  is  ours, 
and  ours  alone.  None  but  ourselves  shall  enter 
into  that  Eden — none  but  ourselves  gather  its 
flowers,  or  feed  upon  its  fruits  !  Pshaw  !  what 
children  we  both  are  !  With  what  delicious 
egotism  we  treasure  up  each  '  trivial,  fond 
record,'  and  tell  the  old  tale  o'er  and  o'er 
again  !" 

"  Say  rather  the  tale  that  is  never  old,"  I  sug- 
gested ;  "  the  poem  that  is  never  ended ;  the 
song  that  can  not  be  sung  through  !  Ah,  Hugh, 
I  almost  fear,  sometimes,  that  to  be  so  happy 
is  not  good  for  me." 

"  Not  good,  my  Barbara — why  so  ?" 

"  Because  I  seem  to  live  for  love  alone,  and 
to  have  forgotten  all  that  once  made  the  pleas- 
ure and  purpose  of  my  life.  I  have  neither 
strength  nor  ambition  left ;  and  my  '  so  potent 
art !'  has  lost  its  magic  for  me.  I  fear  that  I 
shall  never  make  a  painter." 

He  smiled  and  sighed,  and  a  look  half  of  re- 
gret, half  of  compassion,  passed  across  his 
face. 

"  Art  is  long,  and  life  is  short,"  he  said,  "  We 
can  never  compass  the  one ;  but  we  may  at 
least  reap  all  that  is  fairest  in  the  other.  Look 
yonder,  child,  beyond  the  boundary  of  the 
pines — look  yonder,  where  Rome  glitters  in  the 
sun,  and  remember  that  Raffaelle  lies  buried  in 
the  Pantheon." 

"I  do  remember  it." 

"  Ay,  and  remember  that  love  is  here,  but 
fame  is  hereafter — that  to  be  great  is  to  be  ex- 
posed to  all  the  shafts  of  envy ;  but  that  to  love 
thus  is  to  wear  an  '  armoure  against  fate  !'  What 


108 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


to  us  are  the  changes  of  the  years,  the  wars  of 
kings,  the  revolutions  of  empires  ?  We  dwell 
in  the  conscious  security  of  our  love,  as 

"  In  a  green  island  far  from  all  men's  knowing ;" 

and,  happen  what  may  in  the  wide  world  beyond, 
there  abide  *  till  our  content  is  absolute.' 
Heigho !  I  also  used  to  dream,  once  upon  a 
time,  of  art,  and  poetry,  and  fame ;  but  that 
was  before  I  knew  how  much  had  already  been 
done — how  little  was  left  to  do !  Now  I  am 
wiser,  and  more  indolent.  Satisfied  to  appreciate, 
I  wander  from  Shakspeare  to  Goethe,  from 
Raffkelle  to  Rembrandt,  from  Plato  to  Bacon. 
I  taste  of  all  arts  and  all  philosophies,  '  Seneca 
can  not  be  too  heavy,  nor  Plautus  too  light '  for 
me ;  and  yet  what  hope  have  I  of  ever  com- 
passing one  half  of  the  accumulated  riches  of 
the  past?  Ten  lives  would  not  be  enough  to 
read  all  the  best  books,  and  see  all  the  best 
pictures  in  the  world !" 

"  Nor  ten  times  ten,"  I  added,  sadly.  "  Alas  ! 
to  what  end  are  we  working,  and  of  what  avail 
is  any  thing  that  we  can  do  ?  Why  paint  pictures 
that  can  achieve  no  fame,  or  write  books  that 
will  never  be  read  ?  Why  multiply  failure  upon 
failure;  and  why  'monster'  our  'nothings'  in 
the  face  of  all  that  has  been  done  by  the  greatest 
and  the  wisest  ?  For  my  part  when  I  think  of 
these  things,  I  am  hopeless." 

"And  for  mine,  Barbarina,  I  believe  that  the 
life  of  the  connoisseur  is  as  well  spent  as  that  of 
any  other  man  on  earth  !  It  is  for  him  that  the 
author  toils,  and  the  painter  mixes  his  colors ; 
and  neither  of  them  could  well  live  without 
him.  He  reads  the  books  that  others  write. 
He  buys  the  pictures  that  others  paint.  He  re- 
presents popular  opinion,  embodies  the  taste  of 
the  age,  and  keeps  us  in  mind  of  all  that  we 
owe  to  the  past.  Per  Bacco  !  I  begin  to  have 
quite  a  respectful  admiration  for  myself  when  I 
think  of  it!" 

I  could  not  help  smiling. 

"  This  is  mere  sophistry,"  I  said.  "  You  love 
an  idle  life,  and  are  '  nothing  if  not  critical ;' 
and  now  you  want  to  make  your  very  idleness 
heroic.  No,  no,  Hugh — confess  that  it  is  pleas- 
anter  to  dream  in  libraries  and  galleries  than  to 
contribute  to  either ;  and  that  enjoyment  is  more 
agreeable  than  work !" 

He  laughed,  and  sprang  lightly  to  his  feet. 

"Be  just,  Barbarina,"  he  said.  "  Be  just,  if 
nothing  more.  A  reckless  dare-devil,  such  as  I 
have  been  this  many  a  year,  scarcely  deserves 
to  be  accused  of  idleness  or  dreaming.  I  am 
an  Epicurean,  if  you  will ;  but  not  a  Sybarite." 

"  Be  both,"  I  cried,  hastily  ;  "  be  an  idler,  a 
dreamer,  a  trifler — any  thing  you  please  ;  but 
never,  never  wander  away  into  dangers  and  des- 
erts again !  You  once  talked  to  me  of  the 
pleasure  of  peril.  Oh,  I  have  never  forgotten 
that  phrase !" 

"  Foolish  little  wife  !  Forget  it,  dear,  at  once 
and  forever.  Henceforth  I  shall  only  travel 
where  I  can  take  you  with  me,  and  that  is  guar- 
antee enough  for  my  own  safety.  But  the  after- 
noon is  waning,  and  I  have  still  something  to 
show  you  in  Albano." 

Upon  this,  we  went  down  again  into  the  town, 
passing  our  hotel  by  the  way,  and  stopping  be- 
fore the  heavy  double  doors  of  what  seemed  to 
1)0  a  handsome  private  residence.     Here  Hugh 


rang,  and  a  very  old  woman  admitted  us.  A 
paved  carriage-way  intersected  the  ground  floor, 
and  led  out  upon  a  graveled  space  at  the  back. 
Beyond  this  lay  extensive  grounds,  richly  wood- 
ed, with  vistas  of  lawn,  and  winding  walks  be- 
tween. 

"  This  is  the  Yilla  Castellani,"  said  Hugh  pass- 
ing through  with  a  nod  to  the  portress.  "  We 
will  go  over  the  gardens  first,  and  then  see  the 
house.  It  is  a  strange,  rambling,  deserted  place, 
but  there  is  something  romantic  about  it — some- 
thing shady,  quiet,  and  medieval  which  takes  a 
peculiar  hold  on  my  imagination,  and  possesses 
a  charm  which  I  scarcely  know  how  to  define." 

"  Then  you  have  been  here  before  ?" 

"  I  once  lodged  in  the  house  for  two  months. 
It  was  a  long  time  ago — six  or  eight  years,  "I 
suppose  ;  but  I  remember  every  nook  and  cor- 
ner as  well  as  if  I  had  left  it  only  yesterday. 
Stay — this  turning  should  lead  to  the  ruins  !" 

We  went  down  a  broad  walk,  wide  enough  for 
a  carriage  drive,  and  completely  roofed  in  by 
thick  trees.  Weeds  grew  unheeded  in  the  gravel, 
and  last  year's  leaves  lay  thick  on  the  ground. 
Here  and  there,  in  the  green  shade,  stood  a 
stone  seat  brown  with  mosses  ;  or  a  broken  urn ; 
or  a  tiny  antique  altar,  rifled  from  a  tomb — and 
presently  we  reached  a  space  somewhat  more 
open  than  the  rest,  with  a  shapeless  mass  of  re- 
ticulated brick-work,  and  a  low  arch  guarded  by 
two  grim  lions  in  the  midst.  Here  the  leaves 
had  drifted  more  deeply,  and  the  weeds  had 
grown  more  rankly  than  elsewhere  ;  and  a  faint 
oppressive  perfume  sickened  on  the  air.  We 
pushed  our  way  through  the  grass  and  brambles, 
and  looked  down  into  the  darkness  of  that  cav- 
ernous archway.  A  clinging  damp  lay  on  the 
old  marble  lions,  and  on  the  leaves  and  blossoms 
of  the  trailing  shrubs  that  overgrew  them.  A 
green  lizard  darted  by  on  a  fragment  of  broken 
wall.  A  squirrel  ran  up  the  shaft  of  a  stately 
stone  pine  that  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  ruins. 

I  shuddered,  and  sighed. 

"The  place  is  strangely  melancholy,"  I  said. 
"  What  ruins  are  these  ?" 

"  Probably  those  of  Pompey's  villa,"  replied 
my  husband;  "but  their  history  is  lost.  The 
estate  now  belongs  to  a  noble  Roman  family,  one 
of  whose  ancestral  Cardinals  built  the  house 
yonder,  about  a  hundred  and  sixty  years  ago. 
They  are  now  too  poor  to  keep  it  in  repair,  and 
they  let  it  whenever  they  can  get  tenants  to  take 
it.     The  whole  place  is  going  fast  to  decay." 

"And  you  once  lived  here  for  two  whole 
months  ?" 

"Ay,  for  two  very  pleasant  months,  during 
which  I  spent  all  my  time  wandering  about  these 
lakes  and  ruins,  with  a  carbine  on  my  shoulder 
and  a  book  in  my  hand — like  a  literary  bandit. 
How  often  I  have  lain  among  these  very  trees, 
with  a  volume  of  Tasso  in  my  hand,  dreaming 
and  reading  alternately,  and  peopling  the  shady 
avenues  with  Armida  and  her  nymphs  !" 

But  I  hardly  listened  to  him.  I  was  fasci- 
nated by  this  gloomy  arch  leading  away  into 
subterranean  darkness,  and  could  think  of  noth- 
ing else. 

"  I  wonder  where  it  goes,  and  if  it  has  been 
explored,"  I  said.  "  These  lions  look  as  if  they 
were  guarding  the  secret  of  some  hidden  trea- 
sure. There  ought  to  be  a  dreadful  tale  con- 
nected with  the  place !" 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


109 


"  There  shall  be  one,  if  you  wish  it,  carina. 
Let  me  see — we  have  a  Cardinal,  who  is  an  in- 
tellectual voluptuary,  fond  of  learning  and  pleas- 
ure, and  in  love  with  a  beautiful  peasant  girl 
down  in  the  village.  We  have  gardens,  with 
ancient  ruins  lying  in  the  shadows  of  the  trees 
— a  jealous  lover  lurking  in  the  archway — twi- 
light— an  ambuscade — a  revenge — a  murder 

oh,  it  would  make  a  charming  story!" 

"  Then  you  shall  put  it  together,  and  tell  it 
to  me  as  we  drive  back  to  Rome." 

"Willingly;  but  come  a  few  yards  farther, 
where  you  see  the  light  at  the  end  of  the  ave- 
nue." 

I  followed,  and  we  emerged  upon  a  terrace 
that  bounded  the  gardens  on  this  side.  The 
Campagna  and  the  hills  lay  spread  before  us  in 
the  burning  sunset,  and  a  shining  zone  of  sea 
bounded  the  horizon.  Long  shadows  streamed 
across  the  marble  pavement,  and  patches  of  bril- 
liant light  pierced  through  the  carved  interstices 
of  the  broken  balcony.  A  little  fountain  dripped 
wearily  in  the  midst,  surmounted  by  a  headless 
Triton,  and  choked  with  water-weeds  ;  whilst  all 
along  the  parapet,  with  many  a  gap,  and  many  a 
vacant  pedestal,  the  statues  of  the  Caesars  stood 
between  us  and  the  sun. 

When  at  length  we  went  back,  we  took  a  path 
skirting  the  ridge  of  a  deep  hollow,  where  a  for- 
est of  olives  shivered  grayly  in  the  breeze.  The 
house  stood  before  us  all  the  way,  stately  but 
dilapidated  ;  with  closed  windows  and  shattered 
cornices,  and  an  open  Belvedere  on  the  top, 
where  one  shuddered  to  think  how  the  wind 
must  howl  at  night.  Something  of  this  I  must 
have  shown  in  my  face,  for  Hugh,  looking  at  me, 
said  anxiously: — 

*'  The  place  is  solemn,  but  not  sad ;  and  to  my 
mind,  is  only  the  more  beautiful  for  its  desola- 
tion." 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  "  it  is  very  beautiful." 

But  I  felt  a  strange  oppression,  nevertheless. 

"  And  one  might  paint  twenty  pictures  from 
these  gardens  alone." 

"  Yes,  truly." 

He  glanced  at  me  again,  and  seemed  about  to 
speak ;  but  checked  himself,  and  walked  on 
silently.  The  same  old  woman  was  waiting  at 
the  house  to  receive  us — such  a  weird,  withered, 
tottering  creature,  that  one  might  have  fancied 
her  as  old  as  the  building. 

"  The  Hall  of  the  Hercules,  signora,''''  said  she, 
in  a  shrill  treble,  that  quavered  like  the  tones  of 
a  broken  instrument. 

It  had  once  been  a  stately  vestibule  ;  but  was 
now  a  lumber-room.  Ladders,  gardening  tools, 
and  rubbish  of  all  kinds  lay  piled  in  the  corners ; 
and  at  the  farther  end  a  store  of  fagots  and  fas- 
cine was  sracked  against  the  wall.  The  frescoes 
on  the  ceiling  were  broken  away  in  patches  here 
and  there.  The  tesselated  pavement  was  defaced 
and  soiled.  Busts,  black  with  the  dust  of  years 
and  draped  with  cobwebs,  looked  down  from  their 
niches  overheard,  as  if  in  solemn  pity  "for  a 
glory  left  behind."  Altogether  it  was  a  mourn- 
ful place — still  more  mournful  than  the  grounds 
and  the  ruins. 

From  this  erewhile  "  Hall  of  the  Hercules," 
we  passed  on  through  the  chambers  of  the  lower 
floor,  preceded  by  our  guide,  with  her  bunch  of 
rusty  keys.  They  were  all  dusty  and  solitary  alike. 
The  daylight  filtered  drearily  into  them  through 


half-opened  shutters,  and  the  doors  complained 
upon  their  hinges.  In  some  were  broken  mir- 
rors, worm-eaten  remains  of  costly  furniture, 
and  funereal  hangings  which  fell  to  pieces  at  a 
touch  and  sent  up  clouds  of  dust.  Others  were 
bare  of  every  thing  save  cobwebs ;  and  all  were 
profusely  decorated  with  tarnished  gilding ;  mar- 
ble pilasters,  rich  cornices,  panelings  from  which 
the  delicate  arabesques  were  fast  disappearing, 
and  ceilings  where  "  many  a  fallen  old  divinity  " 
still  presided,  amid  faded  Cupids  and  regions  of 
roses  and  blue  clouds. 

In  the  second  story,  the  rooms  were  smaller 
and  cleaner,  and  contained,  moreover,  a  scanty 
supply  of  uncomfortable  modern  furniture.  It 
was  this  part,  said  the  old  cicerone^  which  his 
noble  Highness  graciously  condescended  to  let 
during  the  season,  reserving  the  lower  floor  to 
his  own  masterful  use,  or  Misuse,  as  the  case 
might  be. 

"  Then  it  must  have  been  here  that  you  lived, 
Hugh,"  I  said,  as  we  took  our  way  from  suite  to 
suite. 

"  No — like  a  true  hero  I  sought  to  climb  above 
my  fellows,  and  secured  the  top  of  the  house, 
IJp  there, '  my  soul  was  like  a  star,  and  dwelt 
apart.'  I  could  do  as  I  pleased,  had  a  terrace  to 
myself,  and  the  key  of  the  Belvedere.  Oh, 
what  songs  and  sonnets  I  scribbled  by  moonlight 
on  that  terrace-top,  and  how  I  used  to  twist  them 
into  pipe-lights  the  next  morning !" 

By  this  time  we  had  reached  the  foot  of  the 
last  staircase,  and  Hugh,  springing  forward,  took 
the  lead. 

"  See,"  said  he,  "  these  are  my  old  quarters. 
What  do  you  thmk  of  them  ?" 

It  was  like  passing  from  dark  to  light — from 
winter  to  summer — from  a  prison  to  a  palace. 
The  private  apartments  of  a  princess  in  a  fairy 
tale  could  not  have  been  more  daintily  luxurious. 
Ante-room,  saloUy  library,  and  bed-room  led  one 
from  another  ;  and  the  library  opened  on  a  mar- 
ble terrace  with  orange  trees  in  tubs  at  all  the 
corners,  and  a  great  stone  vase  of  mignonette 
before  the  window.  Exquisite  furniture,  glitter- 
ing with  pearl  and  ormolu  ;  mosaic  tabks  ;  walls, 
paneled  with  mirrors  and  paintings  ;  gauzy  hang- 
ings ;  carpets  in  which  the  feet  sank  noiselessly ; 
precious  works  of  art  in  marble  and  terra-cotta ; 
books,  flowers,  and  all  those  minor  accessories 
which  give  grace  and  comfort  to  a  home,  were 
here  in  abundance. 

"Well,"  repeated  my  husband,  laughingly, 
"  what  do  you  think  of  them  ?" 

"  I  scarcely  know  what  to  think,"  I  replied 
confusedly.  "I — surely  I — I  seem  to  recog- 
nize some  of  these  things  —  that  bronze,  for 
instance  ;  and  those  vases — and  this  cabmet — 
nay,  I  am  certain  this  is  the  cabinet  that  we 
bought  the  other  day,  in  the  Via  Frattina! 
Why  are  they  here  ?  —  and  what  does  it  all 
•  mean  ?" 

"  It  means,"  said  he,  taking  me  by  the  hand, 
with  a  strange  mixture  of  doubt  and  eagerness, 
"  it  means  that  all  wise  people  will  soon  be 
leaving  Rome  for  the  hot  season,  and — and  that 
I  have  reengaged  these  old  rooms  of  mine  for 
your  reception.  See,  here  are  all  our  recent  pur- 
chases— our  pictures,  our  statues,  our  mosaics. 
These  shelves  contain  copies  of  your  favorite 
authors  ;  and  in  the  next  room  you  will  find  an 
easel,  and  a  stock  of  artistic  necessaries.     Our 


110 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


bedroom  windows  overlook  the  hills  about.  Gen- 
sano — our  salon  commands  the  town  and  market- 
place— our  library  opens  toward  the  Campagna, 
with  Ostia  in  the  distance,  and  the  gardens  at 
our  feet.  Here,  with  all  Latium  mapped  out 
before  us,  we  can  spend  our  happy  summer  in 
absolute  retirement.  Here,  wandering  at  will 
among  lakes,  forests,  and  mountains,  we  can 
Bketch — we  can  read — we  can  ride — we  can 
Btudy  this  beautiful,  half-savage  Roman  people, 
and  trace  in  the  present  the  influences  of  the 
past !  Ah,  dearest,  you  know  not  yet  the  en- 
chantment of  an  Italian  summer  amid  Italian 
hills !  You  know  not  what  it  is  to  breathe  the 
perfume  of  the  orange  gardens — to  lie  at  noon 
in  the  deep  shadow  of  an  ilex-grove,  listening  to 
the  ripple  of  a  legendary  spring,  older  than 
history — to  stroll  among  ruins  in  the  purple 
twilight!  Then  up  here,  far  from  the  sultry 
city  and  the  unhealthy  plains,  we  have  such 
sunrises  and  sunsets  as  you,  artist  though  you 
be,  have  never  dreamed  of — here,  where  the  cool 
airs  linger  longest,  and  the  very  moon  and  stars 
look  more  golden  than  elsewhere  !  Tell  me, 
dear  heart,  have  I  done  well,  and  will  my  bird 
be  happy  in  the  nest  that  I  have  made  for  her  ?" 
Seeing  how  flushed  he  was  with  his  own  elo- 
quence, and  how  he  had  anticipated  all  things 
for  my  pleasure,  I  tried  to  seem  glad — even  to 
smile,  and  thank  him.  But,  for  all  that,  my 
heart  was  heavy  with  hope  deferred;  and,  as 
we  drove  back  to  Rome  iil  the  gray  dusk,  I 
wept  behind  my  vail,  thinking  of  home,  and 
seeing  the  term  of  my  exile  growing  more  and 
more  indefinite. 

Not  many  days  after  this,  we  moved  out  to 
Albano,  and  established  ourselves  in  villeggia- 
tura  at  the  Villa  Castellani ;  taking  with  us  for 
our  only  attendants  two  Italian  women-servants 
and  our  faithful  Tippoo.  Alas !  why  was  I  not 
happy  ?  Why  was  I  restless,  and  why  did  I 
cast  aside  canvas  after  canvas,  unable  to  settle 
to  my  art,  or  to  enjoy  the  paradise  around  me? 
Wherefore  when  the  transparent  nights  were 
radiant  with  fire-flies,  did  I  yearn  only  for  the 
red  glimmer  of  one  far-off  village  smithy;  and 
wherefore,  when  the  sun  went  down  in  glory 
behind  the  convent-crested  brow  of  Monte  Cavo, 
could  I  only  sigh,  and  picture  to  myself  how 
it  was  burning  even  now  upon  the  Tudor  win- 
dows at  Broomhill  ? 


CHAPTER   XXXIX. 

A   VICTORY. 

The  year  wore  on,  and,  toward  autumn,  my 
health  gradually  declined.  I  suffered  no  pain, 
and  my  physicians  could  discover  no  disease; 
but  a  strange  mental  and  physical  lassitude  had 
taken  possession  of  me,  and  I  faded  slowly.  I 
seemed  to  have  lost  all  my  old  strength  and 
energy— all  my  love  of  life — all  my  appreciation 
of  beauty.  Lying  languidly  upon  a  sofa  on  the 
terrace,  I  used  to  listen  to  the  noises  in  the 
market-place  without  ever  caring  to  look  down 
on  the  picturesque  crowd  beneath ;  and  many 
a  time  I  closed  my  eyes  upon  the  landscape  and 
the  sky,  in  utter  weariness  of  spirit,  because 
"I  had  no  pleasure  in  them."  Thus  day  after 
day  went  by,  and  at  length  it  waa  said  that 
I  must  bave  change  of  air. 


Unanimous  upon  this  one  point,  my  advisers 
could  agree  upon  no  other.  One  recommended 
Nice.  Another  was  of  opinion  that  Nice  would 
be  too  mild,  and  advocated  Florence.  A  third 
insisted  upon  the  waters  of  Vichy.  When  they 
were  all  gone,  I  called  Hugh  to  my  side,  and  as 
he  knelt  down  by  my  couch  in  the  light  of  the 
golden  afternoon,  I  clung  to  his  neck,  like  a  sick 
child,  and  whispered — 

"  Take  me  home,  dear — only  take  me  home  !" 
"  Home  ?"  he  repeated,  vaguely. 
"  Yes — to  Broomhill.     I  shall  never  get  well 
here,  or  anywhere,  unless  you  take  me  to  Broom- 
hill !" 

I  fek  him  shudder  in  my  arms,  and  that  was 
all.  After  waiting  some  moments  for  the  an- 
swer that  did  not  come,  I  went  on  pleading. 

"  You  don't  know,  Hugh,  how  I  have  longed 
for  it,  or  how  I  have  been  thinking  of  it,  these 
last  months.  If  we  had  gone^there  first  of  all, 
though  only  for  a  few  weeks,  I  believe  I  should 
have  been  content — content  to  stay  with  you 
here  for  years  and  years;  but  now — you  will 
not  be  angry  with  me,  dear,  if  I  tell  you  how  I 
have  yearned  to  go  back  ?" 

He  shook  his  head,  and  drew  my  cheek  closer 
to  his  own,  so  that  I  could  not  see  his  face. 

"  And  you  will  not  fancy  that  I  have  been  un- 
happy, or  discontented,  or  ungrateful  ?" 

He  shook  his  head  again,  with  a  quick  gesture 
of  deprecation. 

"Well  then,  I— I  feel  as  though  I  could 
never  get  well  anywhere  but  at  home,  and 
as  though  I  must  die  if  you  do  not  take  me 
there.  You  see,  dear,  I  have  thought  of  it  so 
much — thought,  indeed,  of  nothing  else  for 
months.  When  you  told  me  that  you  loved  me, 
my  first  thought  was  for  you,  and  my  second  for 
Broomhill.  Ever  since  our  marriage,  I  have 
looked  forward  to  the  happy  day  when  we 
should  go  back  there  together,  and  make  it  our 
own,  dear,  quiet  home.  Ah,  Hugh,  you  can 
not  know  the  charm,  there  is  for  me  in  that 
word.  Home  !  You  can  not  know  how  often  I 
have  lain  awake  in  the  pauses  of  the  night, 
repeating  it  to  myself,  and  trying  to  call  back 
every  tree  in  the  old  park  —  every  picture, 
and  corridor,  and  nook  in  the  old  house,  till 
memory  seemed  to  grow  too  vivid,  and  became 
almost  pain  I" 

"  My  poor  child,"  said  my  husband,  tenderly, 
"this  is  a  mal  de paysy 

"Perhaps  so.  I  have  fancied  that  it  might 
be,  more  than  once.  No  Swiss,  I  am  sure, 
could  sicken  for  his  own  Alps  more  than  I 
sicken  for  Broomhill.  But  then,  you  see,  dear, 
the  happiest  days  of  all  my  past  life  were  linked 
with  it — and  I  have  been  so  many,  many  years 
away  from  England — and — and,  like  Queen 
Mary,  I  fancy  if  I  were  to  die  now,  you  would 
find  the  name  of  Broomhill  engraven  on  my 
heart !" 

He  drew  a  long  breath  that  sounded  almost 
like  a  sob,  and,  disengaging  himself  from  my 
embrace,  got  up,  and  paced  about  the  room. 

"  How  strange  it  is  !"  he  said.  "  We  love 
each  other — why  can  we  not  live  anywhere,  be 
happy  anywhere  together  ?  I  have  heard  of 
those  who  were  happy  in  a  garret — a  prison — a 
desert — and  this  is  the  garden  of  the  world ! 
What  is  it  ?  Fate  ?  No — no — no !  We  make 
our  own  ends— our  own  pitfalls — our  own  sor- 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


Ill 


rows.  All  might  be  well,  if  we  would  have  it 
so  —  but  we  cannot  rest — we  are  fools;  and 
the  fool's  punishment  must  follow,  sooner  or 
later — sooner  or  later !  Turn  aside  the  light- 
ning from  heaven,  and  it  comes  up  through  the 
ground  on  which  one  stands  !" 

"  Oh,  Hugh  !  Hugh  !  you  are  angry  with 
me!"  I  cried,  terrified  by  these  wild  words. 
"Forgive  me — pray  forgive  me!  I  could  be 
happy  with  you  in  a  dungeon — indeed,  indeed  I 
oould.     Only  say  that  you  forgive  me  !" 

He  mastered  his  agitation  by  a  strong  effort, 
and  drew  a  chair,  quite  calmly,  beside  my 
couch. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  forgive,"  he  said,  in  a  low, 
measured  voice.  "  Nothing  whatever,  Barbara. 
You  desire  only  what  is  just  and  reasonable. 
You  have  married  the  master  of  Broomhill,  and 
you  have  a  right  to  live  at  Broomhill." 

"  No,  no— not  a  right !"  I  interrupted.^  "  I 
wish  to  have  no  rights,  save  those  which  your 
dear  love  gives  me  !" 

*'  And  you  have  a  right  to  live  at  Broomhill," 
he  repeated,  as  if  he  had  not  heard  me.  "  But, 
on  the  other  hand,  I  dislike  England.  I  prefer 
a  continental  life,  and  a  continental  climate ;  and 
I  had  hoped  that  you,  educated  and  almost 
naturalized  abroad,  would  share  my  tastes,  and 
conform  gladly  to  my  wishes." 

"  I  have  tried  to  do  so,"  I  said  complainingly ; 
for  I  was  very  weak,  and  felt  hurt  to  hear  him 
set  it  forth  so  coldly.  "  I  have  tried  ;  and 
while  my  strength  lasted,  I  succeeded.  But 
though  I  was  silent,  I  was  always  longing  to  go 
back — and  now — and  now  my  longing  has  worn 
me  out,  and,  with  me,  all  my  power  of  resist- 
ance !" 

He  looked  at  me,  and  his  forced  coldness 
melted  all  at  once. 

"  My  Barbara  !"  he  said.  "  My  poor,  pale 
Barbara !"  And  so  leaned  his  forehead  moodily 
in  his  two  palms. 

A  long  time  went  by  thus  —  he  bent  and 
brooding ;  I  anxiously  watching  him.  By  and 
by  I  raised  myself  from  my  pillows,  and  crept 
close  to  his  knees. 

"You  will  take  me  home,  dear,  will  you 
not?"  I  said  once  more,  trymg  to  draw  his 
hands  down  from  his  face. 

"  Yes.  If  you  must  go — yes,"  he  answered, 
looking  up  with  a  face  that  startled  me — it  was 
80  much  whiter  than  my  own.  "  I  can  not  let 
you  fade,  my  Flower ;  but — God  help  us  both !" 

And  with  this  he  kissed  me,  and  lifted  me 
from  the  floor,  and  laid  me  tenderly  upon  the 
couch  again  ;  and  then  went  out  upon  the  ter- 
race. 

I  had  prevailed.  The  desire  that  had  been 
upon  my  mind  for  so  many  months  was  spoken 
at  last,  and  granted  ;  and  yet  I  felt  uneasy,  ap- 
prehensive, and  but  half  satisfied.  Was  it  well, 
I  asked  myself,  to  succeed  against  his  will  ? 
Was  it  well  to  have  evoked  the  first  hint  of  dis- 
sension for  my  gratification  ?  Might  not  ill 
come  of  it ;  and  might  I  not,  at  least,  have  tried 
the  air  of  Nice,  or  Florence,  first?  Wavering 
thus,  I  was  more  than  once  upon  the  point  of 
calling  to  him  —  then  I  checked  myself,  and 
thought  how  happy  I  would  make  him  at 
Broomhill ;  and  how  he  should  thank  me  by 
and  by  for  having  brought  him  there ;  and  what 
a  pleasure  it  would  be  to  see  him  once  more  in 


the  home  of  his  fathers,  respected  and  honored, 
and  bearing,  as  became  him,  'the  grand  old 
name  of  gentleman.'  Thus  the  moment,  the 
precious  moment  of  concession,  went  by ;  and 
I  wandered  away  into  a  train  of  dreams  and 
musings. 

It  was  almost  dusk  before  Hugh  came  in 
again ;  but  he  had  regained  his  composure,  and 
spoke  cheerfully  of  England  and  our  journey. 
His  nature  was  too  generous  to  do  a  kindness 
by  halves,  and,  since  he  had  yielded,  he  yielded 
graciously.  For  all  this,  however,  I  saw  the 
dark  shade  settle  now  and  then  upon  his  brow, 
and  noted  the  effort  by  which  it  was  dismissed- 

In  a  few  days  more,  we  were  on  our  way 
home. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

THE   FIRST   CLOUD   ON  THE   HORIZON. 

What  with  waiting  some  days  for  finer 
weather  at  Civita  Vecchia,  and  what  with  the 
delays  occasioned  by  my  fatigue  at  different 
points  of  the  journey,  we  were  more  than  three 
weeks  travehng  from  Rome  to  London.  I  had 
begun  to  mend,  however,  from  the  day  that  we 
left  Albano — I  might  almost  say,  from  the  hour 
that  our  return  was  resolved  upon — and  by  the 
time  I  stepped  on  shore  at  Dover,  I  had  already 
recovered  my  spirits,  and  much  of  my  strength. 
We  came  home  without  having  met  any  whom 
we  knew,  having  rested  a  few  days  in  Paris  in  a 
solitude  as  complete  as  that  of  Albano.  Hilda 
and  her  husband  were  with  the  court  at  Fon- 
tainebleau ;  and  Mrs.  Churchill,  who  could  not 
exist  throughout  the  autumn,  even  in  Paris, 
without  the  excitement  of  a  German  Spa,  had 
gone  with  my  father  to  Homburg  some  ten  days 
before.  So  we  went  our  way  like  strangers, 
welcomed  only  by  the  hotel-keepers  along  the 
road ;  and,  arriving  in  London  toward  the  lat- 
ter end  of  August,  put  up  at  Claridge's  in  Brook 
Street. 

On  the  evening  of  the  second  day,  as  we 
were  sitting  at  desert,  Hugh  looked  up  suddenly, 
and  said  — 

"  You  are  going  to  make  a  pilgrimage  to- 
morrow to  your  old  home,  are  you  not,  Barba- 
ra?" 

"  To  my  old  home  and  my  old  nurse,  dear.  I 
wan^o  bring  poor  Goody  to  live  with  us  at 
Broomhill." 

"  Do  so,  darling,  by  all  means.  She  shall  have 
one  of  my  model  cottages  ;  or,  if  you  prefer  it, 
a  nook  in  the  old  house,  somewhere." 

"  Then  we  will  let  her  choose,  please,  Hugh ; 
but  I  think  she  will  prefer  a  little  cottage  of  her 
own  to  a  great  house  full  of  servants." 

"  And  in  the  mean  time,"  said  my  husband, 
with  something  like  a  shade  of  embarrassment 
in  his  manner,  "  I  think  of  running  down  to 
Broomhill  myself  to-morrow,  for  a  few  hours ; 
just  to  — to  see  that  all  is  in  order  before  its 
Uttle  mistress  makes  her  triumphal  entry." 

"  What  folly,  dearest,  when  we  are  both  going 
the  very  following  day !" 

"  Ah,  but  that  is  no  longer  possible,  carina. 
I  have  an  appointment  here  with  my  lawyer  for 
that  precise  evening ;  and  my  business  may,  per- 
haps, detain  us  in  town  till  Monday  or  even 
Tuesdav  next;" 


112 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


I  looked  down  to  conceal  the  tears  which  I 
could  not  prevent  from  springing  to  my  eyes. 
This  delay  was  almost  more  than  I  could  bear  ; 
and  I  should  have  been  ashamed  to  confess  how 
keenly  I  felt  it. 

"Besides,"  continued  he,  "the  servants  do 
not  yet  know  that  we  are  in  England.  I  ought 
to  have  written  to  Mrs.  Fairhead  by  this  day's 
post." 

"Is  Mrs.  Fairhead  the  same  housekeeper 
whom  I  remember  ?" 

"  The  very  same  —  an  excellent  old  soul,  whom 
I  have  tormented  in  various  ways  ever  since  I 
was  born.  By  the  way,  she  does  not  even  know 
that  her  vagabond  master  brings  a  wife  home 
with  him  ;  so,  you  see,  it  would  never  do  to  take 
her  by  surprise." 

"  You  have  not  told  her  that  we  are  married  ?" 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  I  wrote  home  a  few  weeks 
ago,  to  say  that  I  was  on  the  point  of  returning 
to  England,  and  desired  the  house  might  be 
thoroughly  ready  in  every  part.  I  suppose,  how- 
ever, that  I  am  bound  to  reveal  the  fact  before 
you  make  your  appearance."  ' 

"  And  —  and  shall  you  really  go  to-morrow  ?" 

"  I  think  so,"  replied  he,  carelessly.  "  And  I 
also  think  that  Mr.  Claridge  might  find  us  a  bet- 
ter wine.  Tippoo,  go  down  and  inquire  if  they 
have  any  genuine  white  Hermitage,  which  they 
can  particularly  recommend." 

Tippoo  glided  away ;  and  for  some  moments 
we  were  uncomfortably  silent. 

"I  —  I  hope  you  will  not  be  long  away,  Hugh," 
I  faltered,  presently.  "  I  do  not  like  being  left 
all " 

"  Left  ?"  echoed  he.  "  Why,  you  little  goose, 
I  shall  come  back  by  the  last  train." 

"  What,  the  same  day  ?" 

"  Of  course. —  in  time  for  supper,  if  your  high- 
ness will  consent  to  dine  early  and  sup  late." 

"  But  how  is  it  possible " 

"  Every  thing  is  possible  where  there  are  rail- 
ways and  steam-engines.  The  station,  carina,  is 
within  eleven  miles  of  home  ;  and  the  express 
whirls  me  over  all  the  rest  of  the  distance  in  two 
hours  and  a  half.  I'll  be  bound,  now,  that  you 
had  forgotten  all  about  the  railway,  and  thought 
I  should  be  two  or  three  days  away  from  you  !" 

"  I  had  forgotten  it.  Remember,  I  have  been 
living  a  conventual  life  these  last  years,  and  the 
face  of  the  world  is  changed  since  Hooked  upon 
it  last.  But  don't  you  think  we  might  go  home 
on  Saturday,  husband  ?  It  is  so  long  to  wait  till 
Monday  or  Tuesday  next  ?" 

He  passed  his  hand  caressingly  over  my  hair, 
as  if  I  were  a  spoiled  child,  and  sighed. 

"Perhaps,"  he  said;  "perhaps.  We  shall 
see." 

"And  tell  me,"  I  whispered  nestling  closer  to 
his  side,  "  is  Satan  quiet  enough  for  me  ?  I  should 
so  like  to  ride  that  dear,  beautiful xjreature." 

"  Satan  ?  Oh,  poor  old  Satan !  I  don't  even 
know  if  he  is  still  alive.  He  must  be  sixteen 
years  old  by  this  time,  at  the  least." 

"  But  if  he  is  alive " 

"  If  he  is  still  ^alive,  he  is  so  old  that  he  is  sure 
to  be  quiet  enough  for  a  baby.  But  I  shall  buy 
my  Barbarina  a  dainty  cream-colored  Arab,  fit 
for  a  princess's  mounting ;  and  a  little  chaise  and 
pair  of  Shetlands  that  Cinderella  might  envy." 

"  Oh,  no,  Hugh  —  not  for  me." 

"  Not  for  you,  you  foolish  birdie  ?    And  why 


not,  pray  ?  Can  any  thing  be  too  good  or  too 
rare  for  you  ?  Why,  I  mean  my  wife  to  be  the 
best  dressed  and  the  best  mounted,  as  well  as  the 
best  loved  little  woman  in  the  county  !  And 
that  reminds  me  that  you  must  be  measured  for 
a  new  habit  before  we  leave  town  ;  and  the  day 
after  to-morrow  we  must  go  shopping  together, 
and  I  will  show  you  what  a  lady's  man  I  can  be, 
and  how  learned  I  am  in  silks,  satins,  laces,  cash- 
meres, and  chiffonnerie.'''' 

"  But,  dear  husband,  what  do  I  want  with  laces 
and  satins  —  I,  a  poor  little  painter,  whose  only 
happiness  is  to  be  quite  alone  with  you,  and  quite 
unnoticed  ?" 

"My  ohild,"  said  Hugh,  with  a  look  half  of 
sad  reproach,  "  we  should  have  staid  away,  if  we 
desired  to  live  on  in  our  solitary  paradise.  In 
Suffolk,  every  one  knows  me.  I  can  not  live 
incognito  on  my  own  acres.  When  it  is  known 
that  I  am  at  Broomhill,  and  that  I  have  brought 
a  wife  to  my  hearth,  we  shall  be  inundated  with 
visitors  and  invitations.  Ah,  Barbarina,  you  had 
not  thought  of  that." 

I  was  dismayed. 

"  But  —  but  we  need  not  see  them,"  I  said. 
"  We  can  refuse  their  invitations." 

"  Only  to  a  certain  extent.  I  can  not  suffer 
my  neighbors  to  suppose  that  my  wife  is  not  pre- 
sentable. There  are  families  whom  we  must  re- 
ceive and  visit,  or  we  shall  appear  ridiculous. 
Uncivilized  as  I  am,  carina,  I  have  no  mind  to 
become  the  laughing-stock  of  the  county." 

<'But " 

"  But  there  is  no  help  for  it,  little  wife.  I  am 
willing,  even  now,  if  you  desire  it,  to  go  back  to 
Italy  —  or  travel  in  any  direction  you  please. 
East,  West,  North  or  South,  without  going  one 
mile  farther  on  the  road  to  Suffolk  ;  but  if  the 
master  of  Broomhill  returns  thither  with  his 
wife  at  his  side,  he  must  not  forget  that  he  is 
the  last  representative  of  a  long  line  of  English 
gentlemen  who  never  yet  closed  their  doors  in 
the  faces  of  their  neighbors,  or  neglected  the 
good  old  English  virtue  of  hospitality." 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  spoken  to  me 
thus.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  used  a 
tone  even  bordering  upon  authority.  It  was  the 
first  time  that  I  had  ever  heard  him  express  any 
thing  like  pride  of  birth,  or  respect  for  the  ob- 
servances of  society.  Startled,  confused,  al- 
most abashed,  I  knew  not  how  to  answer. 

"  You  —  you  did  not  think  thus  seven  years 
ago,"  I  faltered.  "  You  shut  yourself  up  like  a 
hermit ;  and  it  was  Mrs.  Sandyshaft  who " 

"  Who  dragged  me  into  society,"  interrupted 
he,  impatiently.  "  I  know  it.  But  I  was  not  a 
married  man ;  and  I  was  just  seven  years  younger 
than  now.  As  I  said  before,  Barbara,  I  can  not 
let  the  world  suppose  that  I  have  made  a  mes- 
alliance, and  am  ashamed  to  introduce  my  wife 
in  the  county.  We  will  turn  back,  if  you  please. 
God  knows,  I  came  here  only  for  your  sake,  and 
would  far  rather  retrace  the  pleasant  road  that 
leads  to  liberty ;  but,  if  we  go  forward,  we  must 
be  prepared  to  occupy  our  home  in  a  manner 
consistent  with  our  own  dignity.  Which  shall 
it  be— Brooriihill  or  Italy?" 

"  I — I  don't  know,"  I  repHed,  feeling  half-hurt, 
half  angry,  and  bitterly  disappointed.  "I  must 
have  time  to  consider — I  will  tell  you  when  you 
come  back  to-morrow  evening." 

"  Nay,  that  will  hardly  do,  my  child  ;  because 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


113 


if  we  turn  back,  there  will  be  no  need  for  me 
to  go  down  at  all." 

I  went  over  to  the  window,  and  looked  out  for 
some  minutes  in  silence. 

"Well,"  said  Hugh,  after  a  considerable 
pause,  "  have  you  made  up  your  mind,  Bar- 
barina?" 

"  Yes,  Hugh,  I  have  made  up  my  mind.  We 
will  go  to  Broomhill." 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

A   PIOUS   PILGRIMAGE. 

It  was  a  dull,  gray  day,  when  (having  break- 
fasted very  early,  and  seen  Hugh  step  into  the 
cab  which  was  to  convey  him  to  the  Eastern 
Counties  Station)  I  ordered  a  fly  to  be  brought 
round,  and  desired  to  be  driven  to  that  familiar 
suburb,  every  street  and  house  of  which  I  knew 
by  heart.  The  way,  however,  was  long,  and  the 
approach  from  this  side  of  London  so  new  to^ 
me,  that  till  we  turned  into  the  High  Street,  I 
scarcely  recognized  any  of  the  old  topography. 
Even  there,  nothing  seemed  quite  the  same. 
New  houses  had  sprung  up  ;  the  trades  in  the 
shops  were  many  of  them  changed ;  a  smart  ter- 
race occupied  the  site  of  the  stone-yard  by  the 
canal ;  and  a  church  stood  on  the  waste  ground 
where  the  boys  used  to  play  at  cricket  on  sum- 
mer afternoons.  Seeing  all  these  changes,  I 
began  to  fear  lest  the  old  house  might  be  gone  ; 
but  just  as  the  doubt  occurred  to  me  it  came  in 
sight,  gloomy  as  ever,  behind  the  dusty  trees. 

Finding  myself  so  near,  I  stopped  the  car- 
riage and  went  forward  on  foot,  with  a  strange 
sensation  of  being  still  a  child  and  having  left 
the  place  but  yesterday.  I  looked  up  at  the 
windows  —  they  were  blacker  and  blanker  than 
ever.  I  rang  the  bell,  and  its  echoes  jangled 
painfully  in  the  silence.  Then,  after  a  long, 
long  pause,  a  footstep  slowly  crossed  the  paved 
space  between  the  house-door  and  the  gate  ;  a 
key  grated  rustily  in  the  lock ;  and  not  Goody, 
but  a  dark  and  sullen-looking  woman  stood  be- 
fore me.     I  asked  for  Mrs.  Beever. 

"Mrs.  Beever?"  repeated  she,  holding  the 
door  jealously  ajar,    "  I  never  heard  the  name." 

Never  heard  the  name  !  This  answer  so  con- 
founded me  that  I  scarcely  knew  what  to  say 
next. 

"  She  had  charge  of  the  house,"  I  faltered. 

"/have  charge  of  the  house,"  replied  the 
woman,  "  and  it's  let." 

With  this  she  seemed  about  to  shut  the 
door ;  but  I  staid  her  by  a  gesture. 

"  Let  ?"  I  reiterated.  "Let!  Mr.  Church- 
ill  " 

"  Mr.-  Churchill  is  gone  to  live  abroad,"  said 
she.  "  If  you  want  his  address,  I  have  it  on  a 
card,  indoors." 

I  shook  my  head,  and,  being  still  weak,  and 
somewhat  overcome,  leaned  against  the  door- 
way for  support. 

"I  want  the  old  servant,"  I  said  ;  "the  old 
servant  who  was  here  before  the  house  was  given 
up.  If  you  can  tell  me  where  to  find  her,  I 
shall  be  very  thankful." 

She  shook  her  head  impatiently.  She  knew 
nothing  of  any  such  person.  She  could  give 
me  Mr.  Churchill's  address,  if  I  wanted  it ;  but 


not  his  servant's.  That  was  no  part  of  lier 
business.  And  again  she  made  as  if  she  would 
shut  the  door. 

I  took  out  my  purse  and  spoke  gently  to  her, 
ungentle  as  she  was. 

"Will  you  let  me  go  over  the  house?"  I 
said,  placing  a  half-crown  in  her  hand. 

She  glanced  sharply  at  me,  and  at  the  coin. 

"  But  the  house  is  let,"  she  said  again. 

"  I  know  it.  Still,  if  you  are  alone  here,  you 
can  let  me  go  through  the  rooms.  I  —  I  lived 
here  once  ;  and  I  should  like  to  see  the  place 
again." 

She  seemed  about  to  refuse ;  but  looked  again 
at  the  money,  and  put  it  in  her  pocket. 

"Well,  come  in,"  she  said,  a  little  more  civ- 
illy. "I  suppose  there  can  be  no  harm  in 
that." 

So  I  passed  in.  She  locked  the  door  behind 
me,  like  a  jailer,  and  followed  me  into  the  house. 
With  this  I  would  willingly  have  dispensed  ;  but 
she  kept  me  in  sight,  suspiciously,  from  room  to 
room,  through  all  the  lower  floors.  They  were 
mostly  bare,  or  contained  only  worthless  lumber. 
I  asked  her  what  had  been  done  with  Mr.  Church- 
ill's furniture,  and  if  there  had  been  a  sale ; 
but  found  that  she  knew,  or  would  know,  noth- 
ing. At  the  foot  of  the  garret-stairs  she  paused, 
thinking  it  useless,  I  suppose,  to  follow  farther. 
I  went  up  alone. 

Alas !  my  lonely  garrets,  where  we  used  to 
play  as  little  children,  half  fearful  of  the  silence 
when  the  ringing  of  our  baby-laughter  died 
away !  Where,  a  few  years  later,  1  spent  so 
many  bitter  solitary  hours,  blistering  my  books 
with  tears,  and  rebelling  against  the  fate  that 
made  me  younger  than  my  sisters.  Where  I 
come  back  now,  after  long  years,  to  find  upon 
the  walls  strange  traces  of  my  former  self, 
scribbled  sentences  of  childish  writing,  and 
charcoal  outlines,  half-defaced,  but  full,  to  me, 
of  their  old  meanings  !  This,  I  remember,  was 
a  landscape ;  this.  Sir  Hudibras  and  Sidrophel ; 
this,  the  vision  of  Mirza  —  all  suggested  by  the 
books  I  had  read,  and  all  bearing,  at  the  least, 
some  stammering  evidence  to  my  inborn  love 
of  art.  I  looked  at  them  sadly,  as  one  long 
freed  might  decipher  his  own  writing  on  the 
walls  of  what  had  been  his  cell,  and  sighed, 
with  a  retrospective  pity,  for  my  bygone  self — 
then,  turning  to  the  window,  saw  the  strip  of 
weedy  garden,  and  the  foul  canal  with  its  slug- 
gish barges  creeping  by,  just  as  they  used  to 
creep  in  that  old  time ;  and  far  away,  beyond 
the  spires  and  house-tops,  those  well-remem- 
bered hills  that  had  mocked  me  so  often  with 
their  summer  greenness.  I  had  trodden  the 
snows  and  glaciers  of  the  Alps  since  last  I  looked 
on  them  —  I  had  dwelt  with  Rome  and  the  Ti- 
ber before  my  windows,  and  seen  the  sun  go 
down  behind  Soracte,  "  his  own  beloved  mount- 
ain ;"  but  I  question  if  I  ever  looked  on  either 
with  such  emotion  as  I  felt  this  day  in  sight  of 
the  only  glimpse  of  nature  that  gladdened  my 
childhood. 

I  seemed  to  have  been  here  only  a  few  mo- 
ments, but  I  suppose  the  time  went  quickly;  for 
the  woman  presently  came  iSp,  as  if  to  see  what  I 
could  be  doing  there  so  long.  So  I  hurried  down 
again,  almost  glad  to  be  spared  the  pain  of  staying 
longer.  At  the  house-door  I  paused,  and  gath- 
ered a  few  leaves  of  dusty  ivy. 


114 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


*'  And  you  have  no  idea  of  where  I  can  find 
the  servant  ?"  I  asked  for  the  last  time. 

She  shook  her  head  sullenly,  and  unlocked  the 
outer  door. 

"  Perhaps  they  may  be  able  to  tell  you  over 
there,"  she  said,  pointing  to  a  baker's  at  a  dis- 
tant corner. 

I  passed  out,  and  would  have  bade  her  good 
morning ;  but  she  shut  the  door  behind  me  in 
an  instant,  and  turned  the  key.  I  never  crossed 
that  threshold  agaih.     Never  again. 

At  the  baker's  they  could  tell  me  nothing ;  but 
referred  me  to  a  grocer's  next  door.  The 
grocer  directed  me  to  Pink's  Row,  the  third  gar- 
den on  the  right.  Mrs.  Beever,  he  said,  had  been 
there — might  be  there  still,  for  aught  that  he 
could  tell.  At  all  events  I  should  there  learn 
all  particulars.  So,  still  leaving  the  carriage  in 
sight,  I  took  the  grocer's  little  daughter  for  my 
guide,  and  went  in  search  of  Pink's  Row. 

It  opened  from  a  noisy  by-street,  all  alive 
with  stalls,  and  consisted  of  some  eight  or  ten 
poor  dwellings,  each  with  a  narrow  space  of  gar- 
den railed  off  in  front.  In  one  or  two  of  these 
stood  blackened  skeletons  of  trees^  and  rotting 
summer-houses,  and,  perhaps,  a  sickly  sunflower 
tied,  like  a  martyr,  to  a  stake.  But  most  of 
them  were  mere  uneven  patches  of  rubbish  and 
waste  ground,  trodden  out  of  all  productiveness, 
and  gone  utterly  to  ruin. 

Though  very  small — smaller,  it  even  seemed, 
than  the  others — the  third  house  to  the  right 
looked  clean  and  decent.  A  wljite  blind,  and  a 
flower  in  the  window,  gave  it  an  air  of  cheerful- 
ness ;  and  a  little  child  playing  on  the  threshold 
added  that  precious  link  that  binds  poetry  to 
life  in  the  poorest  home.  I  dismissed  my  guide, 
and  went  up  to  the  door  alone.  There  were 
two  women  in  the  little  room  ;  one  by  the  win- 
dow, stitching  busily — the  other  attending  to 
something  on  the  fire.  Though  her  back  was 
turned,  I  knew  the  last  directly. 

"  Goody,"  I  said,  forgetting  at  once  all  that  I 
had  meant  to  say  by  way  of  preparation.  "  Goody, 
dear,  don't  you  know  me  ?" 

And  Goody,  with  an  inarticulate  cry,  dropped 
her  saucepan,  and  stared  at  me  as  if  I  were  a 
ghost — then  laughed,  and  sobbed,  and  flung  her 
arms  about  me,  and  said  all  the  loving,  foolish 
things  that  she  could  think  of 

*'  But  sure,  my  lamb,"  she  said,  when  the  first 
outburst  was  over,  "  sure  you've  not  come  home, 
thinking  to  find  the  old  house  as  it  was,  and  with 
nowhere  else  to  go  ?  May  be  you  didn't  know 
your  father  was  still  in  foreign  parts,  and  never 
likely  to  return?  Or  is  he  with  you,  deary? 
And  have  you  left  the  school  for  good  ?  And  has 
he  changed  his  mind,  meaning  to  live  in  Eng- 
land, after  all ;  and  you  with  him  ?  Then,  to 
think  of  his  having  married  again  —  ah,  my 
pretty,  I  never  thought  he  would  have  done 
that !  And  to  think  of  little  Hilda  being  mar- 
ried too,  and  to  a  fine  foreign  gentleman  with  a 
title  to  his  name  !  Dear,  dear,  how  things  have 
changed !     How  things  have  changed  !" 

"  And  we  also,"  I  answered,  holding  her  hands 
in  mine,  and  smiling  to  think  how  much  I  had 
to  tell  her.  "  And  we  also.  Goody.  Don't  you 
think  I  am  changed,  since  you  last  saw  me  ?" 

*'  Changed  !  Why,  you  were  a  little  child — a 
little,  pale,  wee,  delicate  child,  when  you  went 
away,  my  deary ;  and  now Why,  I  can  hard- 


ly bring  myself  to  believe  it  is  the  same  littlej 
Barbara!     And  yet  I  knew  you— should  have! 
known  you  any  where— anywhere !     You   have 
the  same  brown  eyes,  and  the  same  smile,  and 
the  same  wave  in  your  hair — oh,  my  darling, 
what  a  happy  day  for  me  !" 

I  drew  a  chair  beside  her,  and  prepared  for  a 
long  chat.  The  younger  woman  had  left  the 
room,  taking  the  child  with  her ;  and  we  were 
quite  alone.  First  I  drew  her  simple  story  from 
her,  and  then  I  told  her  mine. 

Of  all  that  had  befallen  me  I  found  her  still 
ignorant,  and  of  my  father  she  had  only  heard 
through  the  agent  who  li'om  time  to  time  trans- 
mitted money  to  her.  The  house,  it  seemed, 
had  been  given  up  six  months  ago,  and  she,  after 
her  life's  devotion,  dismissed  with  a  year's  salary 
and  a  message  that  Mr.  Churchill  intended,  for 
the  future,  to  reside  abroad.  But  of  this  she 
did  not  even  complain.  She  had  saved  money, 
and  was  now  living,  happily  enough,  with  her 
married  niece,  whom  I  remembered  as  a  tall  girl 
who  played  with  us  sometimes  when  we  were 
children.  As  for  the  furniture,  some  had  been 
sold,  and  some  was  stored  away  in  a  warehouse 
in  the  neighborhood.  More  than  this  she  could 
not  tell  me. 

Then  I  bade  her  prepare  for  a  great  surprise, 
and  so  took  off  my  glove,  and,  smiling,  held  my 
left  hand  up  before  her  eyes.  Ah,  me !  what 
laughing  and  crying,  what  broken  exclamations 
and  eager  questions !  Was  I  really  married  ? 
Was  I  happy  ?  Was  my  husband  also  a  fine 
foreign  gentleman  with  a  title  to  his  name? 
Where  did  I  see  him  ?  How  long  was  it  ago  ? 
And  so  forth,  in  an  endless  tide  of  questions. 
But  her  delight  when  she  found  that  he  was  an 
English  gentleman,  and  her  wonder  when  I  told 
her  the  circumstances  of  our  first  acquaintance, 
knew  no  bounds  ;  so  I  gave  her  the  whole  story 
from  beginning  to  end.  When  I  had  finished, 
she  drew  a  long  breath,  and  said — 

"  Now,  my  lamb,  please  begin,  and  tell  it  to 
me  all  over  again  ;  for  I'm  confused  in  my  head, 
you  see,  and  can  hardly  bring  myself  to  believe 
it  at  first !" 

Whereupon  I,  repeated  my  narrative,  with 
some  abridgments,  and  having  brought  it  once 
more  to  a  close,  found  that  it  was  more  than 
time  to  go.     But  she  would  hardly  part  from  me. 

"  I  will  come  again  to-morrow,  Goody,"  I  sa?d, 
lingering  on  the  threshold  with  her  hand  upon 
my  shoulder.  "  I  will  come  to-morrow,  and  take 
you  with  me  to  our  hotel.  You  must  see  my 
husband,  and  love  him,  for  my  sake." 

"  Bless  his  heart !"  said  Goody. 

"  And  by  and  by,  when  we  are  quite  settled 
at  Broomhill,  you  shall  come  and  live  with  me, 
dear  ;  and  never,  never  leave  me  again  !" 

"  If  I  might  only  live  to  nurse  another  little 
Barbara !"  ejaculated  Goody,  with  her  apron  to 
her  eyes. 

"  So  good-by,  till  to-morrow." 

She  shook  her  head,  and  embraced  me  again, 
and  seemed  so  sad  that,  when  half-way  down 
the  garden,  I  turned  back  and  repeated — 

"  Only  till  to-morrow,  remember !" 

"Maybe,  my  lamb.  Maybe,"  she  sobbed; 
"  but  I  feel  as  if  to-morrow  would  be  never ! 
I  don't  fare  to  feel  as  if  I  should  see  you 
again!" 

But  I  waved  my  hand  and  hurried  away,  and 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


115 


she  stood  watching  me  as  long  as  I  remained  in 

sight. 

ThjB  evening  was  very  lonely  without  Hugh. 
It  was'the  first  time  that  we  had  been  parted  by 
so  many  miles  and  so  many  hours,  and  it  seemed 
as  if  the  moment  of  his  return  would  never 
come.  I  sent  down  for  a  railway-book ;  and, 
when  it  was  brought,  could  not  fathom  the  mys- 
tery of  the  time-tables.  I  took  up  a  novel,  and 
found  my  thoughts  wandering  far  away  from  the 
^tory.  I  threw  aside  the  novel  for  the  '  Times,' 
and  the  first  column  that  met  my  eyes  recorded 
a  "  terrible  railway  accident  and  fearful  loss  of 
life."  Thoroughly  restless  and  nervous,  I  then 
took  a  seat  by  the  window,  and  watched  ^evj 
vehicle  that  came  and  went,  till  impatience  be- 
came agony,  and  I  felt  as  if  I  must  go  down  to 
the  station  to  be  sure  that  nothing  had  happened 
on  the  line  that  day.  Just  at  the  very  last  mo- 
ment, when  it  was  about  five-and-thirty  minutes 
past  eleven,  and  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  ring 
for  a  fly  without  further  delay,  a  cab  dashed  up 
to  the  door;  a  gentleman  jumped  out;  there 
was  a  rapid  footfall  on  the  stairs;  and  Hugh 
burst  into  the  room. 

"  Oh,  husband,  at  last !  Thank  heaven,  at 
last ! " 

"  At  last,  my  darling,  and  in  capital  time,  too," 
he  replied,  cheerily.  "The  train  was  in  to  a 
moment,  and  my  cabman  -had  a  famous  horse, 
and  here  I  am,  hungry  as  a  hunter !  Why,  you 
look  quite  agitated  —  what  is  the  matter  ?" 

"  You  were  so  late,  Hugh  ;  and  I  have  been 
reading  about  a  dreadful  accident  in  the  news- 
paper, and " 

He  interrupted  me  with  a  kiss,  rang  loudly 
for  his  supper,  closed  the  window  shiveringly, 
and  muttered  something  about  "  this  diabolical 
climate." 

"  Nonsense,  sir,"  I  said,  "  you  ought  to  like 
your  native  temperature.  It  is  a  delicious  night, 
coming  after  an  oppressively  hot  day." 

"A  delicious  purgatory!  I'll  buy  a  suit  of 
bearskins." 

Do,  dear.  It  will  be  quite  in  character. 
But  have  you  no  news  for  me  ?  What  did  Mrs. 
Fairhead  say,  when  you  told  her?  How  does 
the  old  place  look  ?  Were  they  not  very  glad 
to  see  you  ?    Is  Satan  still  alive  ?" 

"  I  will  not  answer  a  single  question  till  I 
have  had  my  supper." 

"Nay,  one,  dearest  —  only  one.  Did  you 
hear  any  intelligence  of — of  my  aunt?" 

Hugh  looked  grave,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  did,  my  Barbarina," 
he  replied.     "Mrs.  Sandyshaft  is  ill  — very  ill." 

"Ill !  ^'  I  echoed,  all  my  gayety  deserting  me 
in  a  moment.      "  What  is  the  matter  with  her  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  Some  kind  of  low  fever,  I 
fancy.  They  told  me  she  had  been  confined  to 
her  bed  for  the  last  fortnight  or  more." 

"Low  fever  —  so  old  as  she  is  —  so  strong 
and  healthy  as  sh6  has  always  been !  Do  they 
say  she  is  in  danger  ?" 

"  Indeed,  I  fear  so.  Doctor  Topham,  I  am 
told,  is  far  from  sanguine,  and " 

"  Let  us  go,"  I  interrupted,  vehemently. 
"  Let  us  go  at  once.  Oh,  I  thank  God  that  we 
are  in  England  !  " 

I  had  risen,  in  my  excitement,  and  moved 
toward  the  door ;  but  he  brought  me  back  to 


my  chair,  and  took  my  hands  gently  between  his 
own. 

"  Be  patient,  my  darling,"-  he  said.  "I  have 
already  considered  what  must  be  done." 

"  Considered  !  Oh,  heavens  !  as  if  there  yvere 
time  for  considering !" 

"  Plenty  of  time,  if  one  be  only  calm.  Mrs. 
Sandyshaft  is  very  ill,  but  I  have  not  heard  that 
she  is  dying.  Besides,  we  can  not  go  at  once. 
It  is  impossible." 

"  Nothing  is  impossible  !  with  post-horses " 

"  With  money  and  post-horses,"  said  my  hus- 
band, "we  could  certainly  travel  all  night,  very 
uncomfortably ;  but  to-morrow  morning,  by  the 
better  help  of  the  railway,  we  shall  reach  Ipswich 
in  three  hours  and  a  half.  Besides,  we  can 
telegraph  in  advance,  and  have  a  post-chaise 
waiting  for  us  at  the  station." 

"You  are  right,  Hugh,"  I  admitted,  after  a 
brief  silence.     "  Forgive  my  impatience." 

"  As  heartily  as  you  forgive  your  aunt  for  her 
long  neglect." 

"  Hush,  Hugh  I    I  remember  only  her  love." 

Just  then,  the  supper  was  brought,  and  we 
sat  down  to  table.  Hungry  as  he  said  he  was, 
Hugh  ate  but  little,  and  made  no  effort  to  resume 
his  temporary  cheerfulness.  By  and  by,  the 
supper  was  removed,  and  the  hookah  brought ; 
but  the  hour  of  our  most  genial  intercourse  went 
by  in  unbroken  silence ;  and  the  cloud  that  had 
brooded  over  Hugh  for  the  last  few  weeks  came 
and  settled  more  heavily  than  ever  on  his  brow  : 
settled  like  the  darkness  on  the  earth ;  like  the 
weight  on  my  own  heart. 

Alas !  dear  Goody,  there  are  such  things  as 
presentiments,  let  those  deny  them  who  will ! 
I  shall  be  far  away  to-morrow  —  far  away ! 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

THE   OLD   FAMILIAR   FACES. 

It  was  between  three  and  four  o'clock,  and 
we  had  been  traveling  by  rail  and  road  for 
nearly  five  hours  ;  so  we  left  our  spattered  post- 
chaise  down  at  the  inn,  and  walked  up  the  hill 
together.  There  had  been  rain  during  the 
greater  part  of  the  day;  but  the  clouds  were 
now  clearing  off  rapidly,  and  %he  red  sunlight 
of  the  autumnal  afternoon  glittered  on  the  wet 
leaves  in  the  hedges,  and  in  the  rain-pools  on 
the  road.  Presently  a  laborer  passed  us,  dilving 
a  tumbril  with  the  name  of  Ann  Sandyshaft 
painted  on  the  side. 

"Good  evening,  friend,"  said  Hugh.  "Is 
your  mistress  better  to-day  ?  " 

The  man  touched  his  cap,  and  stared  at  us 
vacantly.     Hugh  repeated  the  question. 

"  Oh*  ay,"  drawled  he,  "  she's  bad  enough, 
and  to  spare,  master.  Yon  comes  the  Doctor. 
Ask  him." 

And  with  this,  and  a  prolonged  shake  of  the 
head,  he  plodded  on  his  way.  At  the  same 
moment  a  single  horseman  came  round  the  bend 
of  the  road  behind  us,  and  was  about  to  pass  on 
with  a  civil  salutation,  when  Hugh  stepped  for- 
ward and  took  the  pony  by  the  reins. 

"  Dr.  Topham,"  said  he,  "  I  hope  you  are  not 
going  to  pass  me  like  a  stranger  ?" 

"  God  blesa  my  soul,  sir! "  exclaimed  Dr. 
Topham.  "  Is  it  —  is  it  possible  that  I  see  Mr. 
Farquhar,  of  Broomhill  ?" 


116 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


"  Such  as  he  is,  you  do,"  replied  Hugh.  And 
they  shook  hands  heartily. 

"  You — you  come  upon  us,  Mr.  Farquhar,  like 
an  apparition,"  said  the  little  man,  still  flurried 
and  surprised.  "Egad,  sir,  you  did  the  same 
thing  a  few  years  ago,  and  startled  the  whole 
county  by  appearing  suddenly,  like  a  jack  in  a 
box  !  What  part  of  the  globe  do  you  come  from 
now,  pray?" 

"  From  Italy,"  replied  Hugh,  "  where  I  have 
been  residing  for  nearly  a  year." 

*'  Italy  !  Why,  Randall  told  me  the  other  day 
that  you  were  in  America!"  ejaculated  the 
Doctor,  with  a  side  glance  at  myself.  "  Ton 
my  life,  the  fellow  said  America  to  hoax  me  !" 

"  Randall  is  an  excellent  steward,"  said  Hugh, 
quietly,  "  and  knows  that  I  do  not  care  to  let 
*  the  stones  prate  of  my  whereabout.'  America 
does  well  enough  for  an  answer." 

The  Doctor  scratched  his  ear,  and  looked 
puzzled.     Then  glanced  at  me  again. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  he,  pointing  with  his  whip- 
handle  in  the  direction  of  the  hall,  "  I  suppose 
you  have  heard  the  sad  news  over  yonder,  Mr. 
Farquhar  ?  Our  pooc  friend,  Mrs.  Sandyshaft — 
very  ill,  very  ill,  indeed.  Low  fever — debility 
— my  second  visit  to  her  to-day,  sir — -jny  second 
visit." 

"  Indeed  I  have  heard  of  it,"  replied  Hugh, 
"  and  that  brings  me  to  the  subject  of  my  sud- 
den arrival.  But  I  have  not  yet  introduced  you 
to  my  wife.  Barbara,  I  think  you  are  not  un- 
acquainted with  the  name  of  Doctor  Topham  ?" 

Dr.  Topham  took  off  his  hat,  and  bowed  pro- 
foundly. 

*'  I — I  really  had  no  idea,"  he  stammered. 
"  This  is  surprise  upon  surprise  !  The — the 
honor — the  pleasure — the — the  congratulations 

Egad,  I'm  so  amazed  that  I  don't  know 

what  to  say !" 

"  Amazed  to  find  Benedick  a  married  man,  or 
amazed  that  Beatrice  should  turn  out  to  be 
an  old  acquaintance,  eh,  Doctor  ?"  laughed  my 
husband. 

The  little  man  looked  more  bewildered  than 
ever. 

"Excuse  me,"  he  said,  "but,  proud  as  I  am 
to  become  acquainted  with  a  lady  so — in  short, 
with  Mrs.  FarquRar — I  can  not  presume  to— to 
lay  claim  to  any  previous " 

"  For  shame.  Dr.  Topham  !"  I  interposed. 
"  Do  you  forget  Barbara  —  little  Barbara 
Churchill  ?" 

Dr.  Topham  deliberately  dismounted,  put  his 
hat  on  the  pony's  head,  and  kissed  me  on  both 
cheeks. 

"  From  this  time  forth,"  said  he,  "  I  will 
never  be  astonished  at  any  thing." 

In  a  few  moments  more  he  had  passed  his 
arm  through  the  bridle,  and  we  were  all  walking 
on  slowly,  side  by  side,  with  the  gables  of 
Stoneycroft  Hall  peeping  over  the  trees  some 
little  distance  ahead. 

"  I  am  glad  you  are  here,"  he  said  ;  "  more 
glad  than  I  can  tell  you.  And  I  am  also  very 
glad  to  have  met  you  before  you  went  up  to  the 
house.  The  shock  might  have  excited  her  too 
much,  and  this  enables  me  to  prepare  her  for 
it.  The  sight  of  your  face,  Barbara,  will  do  her 
more  good  than  all  the  physic  in  ray  surgery.  I 
beg  your  pardon — old  habit,  you  see  I  Mrs. 
Farquhar,  I  should  say." 


"  No,  no.  Doctor — please  call  me  Barbara." 

"Well  then,  Barbara,  I  look  upon  you  as  a 
great  tonic  to  be  employed  for  my  patient's 
benefit.  Poor  soul !  how  she  has  longed  to 
see  you !" 

"  Oh,  Doctor  Topham !  has  she  ever  really 
said  so  ?" 

"  Said  so  ?     Hundreds  of  times." 

"  Then  she  has  not  forgotten  me  ?" 

"  If  she  had  forgotten  you,  would  she  have 
sent  for  you  ?" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?     Sent  for  me  ?" 

"  Why,  of  course.  If  not,  how  should  you 
be  here  now?  You — surely  you  received  my 
letter  ?" 

It  was  now  my  turn  to  be  puzzled. 

"I  know  of  no  letter,"  I  said;  "and  if  you 
have  written  to  my  father,  I  have  heard  nothing 
of  it.  He  is  at  Spa,  and  very  seldom  writes 
to  me." 

"  Then  mine,  being  addressed  to  his  old  club 
in  London,  has  most  likely  followed  him,"  said 
the  Doctor ;  "  which  explains  both  his  silence 
and  yours.  But  what  lucky  accident  brought 
you  home  ?  And  how  did  you  know  that  Mrs. 
Sandyshaft  was  ill  ?  And — and,  above  all,  how 
is  it  that  at  the  very  time  when  we  believed  you 
to  be  still  learning  your  lessons  in  some  foreign 
school,  you  turn  out  to  be  married  and  settled 
— married,  by  all  that's  incomprehensible,  to 
Fai-quhar  of  Broomhill  ?" 

"  Is  that  so  wonderful  ?"  asked  Hugh, 
amused  at  the  Doctor's  mystification.  "  You 
forget  that  Barbara  and  I  have  known  each 
other  ever  since  I  was  last  in  England.  It  is 
quite  an  old  attachment." 

"  An  old  attachment  ?"  repeated  Doctor  Top- 
ham, incredulously.  "  Humph !  I  should  as 
soon  have  expected  to  see  her  married  to  the 
Wandering  Jew." 

"  Thank  you  ;  but  the  disparity  is  hardly  so 
great." 

"  I  don't  allude  to  your  age,  Mr.  Farquhar, 
but  to  your  habits,"  said  the  Doctor,  quickly. 
"  You  must  remember  that  we  are  accustomed 
to  think  of  you  as  the  Flying  Dutchman.  We 
hear  of  you  as  being  everywhere  by  turns,  and 
nowhere  long;  and  that  you  could  ever  commit 
any  thing  so  civilized  as  matrimony,  never 
entered  the  sphere  of  our  calculations.  Then  to 
think  that  Barbara,  our  little  Barbara  should  be 

Upon  my  soul,  Mr.  Farquhar,  I  believe  it 

would  have  surprised  me  less  if  you  had  married 
an  Indian  begum,  or  a  North  American  squaw  !" 

"  You  do  my  taste  but  Httle  honor,  then," 
said  Hugh,  "  and  give  me  credit  for  nothing  but 
my  love  of  locomotion.  A  pretty  reputation 
for  a  county  gentleman !  But  see,  Barbara, 
here  we  are  at  the  garden-gate,  where  you  so 
often  ran  to  meet  me.  The  place  looks  just  the 
same." 

Ah  me  !  it  did,  indeed.  Nothing  was  changed. 
There  were  the  same  roses  on  the  porch — the 
same  swallows'  nests  under  the  eaves — the  same 
laurels  at  the  gate — the  same  old  trees  shower- 
ing down  their  russet  leaves  upon  the  pond  ! 

The  doctor  tied  his  pony  to  the  staple  in  the 
wall,  as  he  used  to  tie  it  years  ago,  and  preceded 
us  up  the  path.  In  the  porch  he  paused,  and 
laid  his  hand  upon  my  shoulder. 

"  God  bless  you,  Barbara,"  he  said  earnestly. 
"  If  any  thing  can  save  her  now,  it  will  be  your 


IJAKJhfAKA'b    HlSlUKi. 


TTT 


presence.  I  scarcely  hoped  to  see  you,  child ; 
and  had  it  depended  on  your  father,  I  don^t 
believe  you  would  have  been  here  now.  But  it 
depended  on  a  higher  will.  There  is  a  Provi- 
dence in  the  chance  that  brought  you — a  great 
and  gracious  Providence." 

Saying  which,  he  reverently  took  off  his  hat, 
and  I  noticed  for  the  first  time  how  his  hair  had 
silvered  since  last  I  saw  him. 

"  She  is  my  oldest  friend,"  he  added,  sorrow- 
fully, "and  the  best  I  ever  had.  Hush!  go 
into  the  parlor,  and  wait  till  I  have  been  .up- 
stairs." 

We  went  into  the  little  parlor  with  the 
deep  bay  window,  which  I  remembered  so  well. 
A  strange  servant  was  preparing  the  doctor's 
te»,  but  dropped  a  startled  courtesy  at  the  sight 
of  strangers,  and  vanished.  There  stood  my 
aunt's  chair  and  footstool,  and  yonder,  in  its  old 
place,  the  bookcase  half  filled  with  the  ponder- 
ous Encyclopaedia,  I  sat  down  in  the  nearest 
seat,  faint  with  agitation  and  fatigue  ;  wMle  my 
husband,  absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts,  stood 
looking  out  upon  the  garden. 

"  Of  course,  Barbara,"  he  said,  after  a  long 
silence,  "  you  will  not  think  of  leaving  here  for 
the  next  day  or  two  ?" 

"  I  suppose  not,"  I  answered,  with  a  sigh. 

*'  I  have  sent  Tippoo  to  Broomhill  for  a 
horse,"  he  added. 

"  For  a  horse,  Hugh  ?" 

"  Certainly.  You  did  not  suppose  that  I 
could  establish  myself  here  without  invitation  ?" 

I  had  not  thought  about  it;  but  it  seemed 
like  an  evil  omen  that  my  husband  should  go 
home  this  first  night  to  his  own  roof,  alone. 

"  No,  no,"  I  said,  "  do  not  do  that.  Stay 
here,  or  take  me  with  you." 

"  I  can  not  stay  here,"  he  said  hastily,  "  in  a 
sick-house — uninvited — unexpected— it  would  be 
impossible.  And  as  for  taking  you  with  me — 
why,  you  are  no  longer  a  child  to  ride  before  me 
on  the  pummel  1" 

"  We  could  get  the  postchaise  which  we  left 
in  the  village !" 

But  he  waved  his  hand  impatiently. 

"Nonsense,  darUng,"  he  said,  "you  talk  like 
a  child.  It  is  clearly  your  place  to  stay,  and 
mine  to  go.  I  shall  be  down  here  again  to 
breakfast,  and  you  will  scarcely  have  had  time  to 
miss  me.  Why,  what  folly  is  this  ?  Tears  for 
such  a  trifle !" 

"  It  is  no  trifle  to  me.  Call  it  folly,  superstition, 
if  you  please ;  but  I  can  not  bear  that  you  should 
go  back  to  Broomhill  without  me.  I  feel  as  if  it 
were  a  bad  beginning  to  our  home-life  ;  and — 
and  we  have  never  yet  been  parted " 

The  door  opened,  and  Dr.  Topham  came  in. 

"  I  have  kept  you  waiting  a  long  time,"  said 
he  ;  "  but  I  was  obliged  to  prepare  her  by  de- 
grees. She  knows  now  that  you  are  here,  Bar- 
bara, and  is  ready  to  see  you  ;  but  we  must  be ' 
careful  not  to  excite  her.  She  is  very  weak  to- 
day." 

"  But  not  in  danger  ?" 

"  In  no  immediate  danger.  If,  however,  she 
were  not  to  rally  within  the  next  twelve  hours,  I 
should  begin  to  fear  seriously  for  the  result. 
But  you  have  been  giving  way  to  nervousndfcs, 
and  unfitting  yourself  for  the  interview.  That  is 
very  wrong,  Barbara.  Tears  and  trembling  do 
no  good  to  an  invaUd,  and  often  a  great  deal  of  | 


harm.  You  must  compose  yourself  before  you 
go  up." 

Seeing  how  Hugh  persisted,  and  how  lightly 
he  put  my  remonstrance  aside,  I  felt  angry  with 
myself  and  him,  and  forced  myself  to  be  firm. 

"  I  am  not  nervous  now,"  I  said.  "  You  may 
trust  me  to  go  up." 

"  I  think  I  may,"  he  rephed  approvingly. 
"  You  are  a  brave  little  woman.  Please  to  re- 
member, however,  that  your  aunt  is  not  in  a 
state  to  bear  any  farther  surprise  or  excitement. 
You  are  still  little  Barbara  Churchill,  and  Mr. 
Farquhar  here  is  still  at  the  Antipodes.  Let 
this  be  understood  between  us." 

"  With  all  my  heart." 

"  Then  follow  me." 

So  we  went,  leaving  Hugh  still  loitering  gloom- 
ily about  the  parlor,  with  the  twilight  thickening 
fast,  and  the  rain  beginning  to  pelt  against  the 
panes.  The  next  moment  I  was  on  the  thresh- 
old of  the  sick-chamber,  forgetting  all  my  lesser 
troubles  in  the  sight  of  that  curtainless  bed,  and 
the  gaunt  figure  reclining  on  it,  like  a/statue  on 
a  tomb.  Her  face  was  turned  toward  the  win- 
dow, so  that  her  profile  came  for  an  instant  be- 
tween me  and  the  light,  stern  as  ever,  but 
sharpened  by  time  and  sickness.  Her  hands  lay 
listlessly  upon  the  counterpane.  Her  hair  was 
drawn  back  beneath  the  same  plain  cap  that  she 
always  used  to  wear.  After  all,  she  was  not  so 
much  changed  as  I  had  expected.  As  the  door 
closed,  she  turned  her  head  and  said,  faintly  and 
slowly : — 

"  Bab,  is  it  you  ?" 

In  answer  to  which  I  kissed  her  on  the  brow, 
and  said,  as  composedly  as  I  could  : — 

"  Yes,  aunt,  it  is  I." 

She  waved  me  back  by  a  feeble  gesture,  and 
pointed  to  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

"  Stand  there,  Bab,"  she  said,  "  and  take  that 
bonnet  off.     I  want  to  look  at  you." 

I  obeyed  her,  and  stood  there,  holding  my 
breath  lest  it  should  break  into  sobs.  When 
she  had  looked  long  enough,  she  beckoned  me 
back,  and  bade  me  sit  beside  her.  Then,  turn- 
ing her  face  again  to  the  window — 

"  The  light  is  going,"  she  said.  "  Put  the  blinds 
back,  that  I  may  watch  it  to  the  last." 

A  servant  sitting  by  the  fire  rose  and  ^rew 
them  back  ;  but  the  sky  was  wild  and  dark,  and 
the  rain  continued  to  come  in  heavy  gusts. 

"  A  bad  night  at  sea,"  observed  the  doctor, 
briskly.  "  I  don't  envy  those  who  are  beating 
about  the  Atlantic  in  this  treacherous  wind." 

But  she  seemed  scarcely  to  hear  him,  and  kept 
her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  fading  twilight.  When 
it  was  quite  gone,  and  all  beyond  the  casement 
looked  darker  than  within,  she  sighed  heavily, 
asked  for  lights,  and  complained  that  the  dark- 
ness seemed  to  weigh  upon  her. 

"  Bab,"  she  sSW  after  a  while,"  you  look  older 
than  I  expected." 

"I  am  eighteen,  dear  aunt,"  I  replied,  "and 
it  is  seven  years  since  you  saw  me." 

"  Tush,  you  are  a  child  still.  Only  eighteen  ! 
But  you  look  older." 

To  which,  being  warned  by  a  sign  from  the 
doctor,  I  made  no  answer. 

"  You  have  had  no  froubles  ?"  she  asked  after 
another  pause.     "  You  are  not  unhappy  ?" 

"  No — my  troubles  have  been  few,  and  I  shall 
be  quite  happy  when  you  are  well  again." 


Something  like  a 'faint  smile  passed  over  her 
face,  as  I  said  this,  and  took  her  hand  in  mine. 
Alas  !  how  thin  and  weak  it  was,  and  I  remem- 
bered it  so  firm  and  masculine  ! 

"  Poor  Bab  !"  she  mmnnured.  "  Poor  little 
Bab  !  I  knew  you  would  come  back  to  me  at 
last !" 

And  with  this  she  closed  her  eyes,  and  seemed 
to  fall  suddenly  asleep.  The  doctor  laid  his 
finger  on  his  lip,  and  drew  a  chair  softly  to  the 
fire  ;  but  I  could  not  stir,  for  her  hand  remained 
in  mine,  and  I  fea,red  to  wake  her.  And  still 
the  wind  moaned  round  the  gables,  and  the  rain 
came  and  went  in  stormy  bursts  ;  and  save  the 
dropping  of  a  cinder  on  the  hearth,  or  the  tick- 
ing of  my  aunt's  great  watch  upon  the  chimney- 
piece,  all  within  was  silent  as  the  grave.  A  long 
time  went  by  thus ;  and  at  last,  being  myself 
very  weak  and  tired,  I  also  fell  into  an  uneasy 
sleep,  from  which  I  woke  up  every  few  minutes 
without  the  power  to  keep  myself  from  dropping 
off  again.  By  and  by,  something,  I  knew  not 
what,  roused  me  all  at  once,  and  seeing  that  my 
aunt  still  slept,  and  that  Dr.  Topham  was  nod- 
ding in  his  chair,  I  sat  up  and  Ustened.  Hush  ! 
is  it  a  horse's  footfall  on  the  wet  road  ?  Is  that 
the  latch  of  the  side-gate  ?  Do  I  not  hear  a 
sound  like  the  cautious  opening  of  a  door  down- 
stairs ? 

Breathlessly,  and  by  the  gentlest  degrees,  I 
drew  my  hand  away  without  waking  her,  crept 
to  the  door,  felt  my  way  along  the  corridor,  and 
ran  down  in  the  dark,  taking,  by  a  kind  of  in- 
stinct, the  passage  leading  to  the  back  of  the 
house. 

I  found  him  standing  by  the  open  door,  pen- 
ciling some  Avords  on  a  leaf  torn  from  his 
pocket-book,  while  the  servant  stood  beside  him 
with  a  lantern.  Seeing  me,  he  crushed  the 
paper  in  his  hand  and  flung  it  away. 

"  I  was  bidding  you  good  night,  carissima,''^ 
he  said,  in  Italian  ;  "  but  paper  farewells  are  not 
worth  the  having.  I  am  glad  you  have  come, 
though  I  would  not  send  for  you." 

"  Cruel !     Then  you  will  go  ?" 

"  I  must.  Hush  !  do  not  try  to  persuade  me. 
It  is  better  thus,  and  yet — and  yet  I  am  weak 
enough  to  yield,  if  you  look  at  me  with  those 
imploring  eyes.  No — ^no — I  must  go,  for  your 
sake  more  than  mine.  Oh  !  Barbara,  Barbara, 
why  did  you  bring  me  back  to  England  ?" 

"  What  can  you  mean  ?"  I  cried.  "  For  God's 
sake,  stay  with  me.     You  are  not  well,  Hugh !" 

"Nor  ill,  my  love.  Pshaw !  it  is  hard  to  kiss 
and  ride  away,  like  a  knight  in  a  novel  —  but 
the  rain  beats  in  upon  you,  and  if  I  close  this 
door  I  shall  not  have  courage  to  open  it  again  ! 
Good-by,  my  wife,  my  own — the  night  will  be 
long  without  thee !" 

Thus,  clasping  me  closely  in  his  arms,  he 
kissed  me  twice  or  thrice  ;  broke  away,  as  if  he 
dared  not  trust  his  resolution  ;  sprang  into  the 
saddle  ;  and  was  gone. 

All  without  was  intensely  dark.  I  could  see 
nothing — nothing  but  the  groom  leisurely  pre- 
paring to  follow  his  master,  and  the  rainpools 
lying  round  the  door.  I  could  not  even  hear 
his  horse's  footfalls  for  the  raving  of  the  wind. 
So,  cold  and  heavy-hearted,  I  came  in  and  closed 
the  door,  and  thought  how  empty  the  house 
seemed  now  that  he  was  no  longer  in  it — how 
empty  life  would  be  without  him — and,  above 


all,  how  strange  his  moods  had  been  of  late, 
how  irritable,  how  impatient,  how  wayward ! 
Musing  and  wondering  thus,  perplexing  myself 
with  questions  that  I  could  not  answer,  and  with 
doubts  that  I  could  not  solve,  I  made  my  way 
slowly  back  to  the  door  of  my  aunt's  chamber 
— then,  remembering  the  scrap  of  writing  he  had 
thrown  away,  stole  down  again  to  look  for  it. 
It  was  but  a  tiny  crumpled  leaf,  and  the  wind 
had  blown  it  into  a  distant  corner ;  but  I  found 
it,  for  all  that,  and  rescued  it  from  the  dust,  and 
smt>othed  it  out  tenderly,  as  if  it  were  a  sentient 
thing  to  be  prized  and  comforted. 

There  were  only  a  few  words  scrawled  hastily 
in  pencil — a  few  Italian  words,  beginning  with 
"  anima  mia"  and  breaking  off  abruptly  before 
the  ending  of  the  first  sentence ;  but  the  "  ankna 
mia^^  was  enough.  It  consoled,  it  made  me 
happy.  I  felt  that  I  was  no  longer  alone,  and 
that  his  love  and  his  thoughts  would  be  with  me 
all  the  weary  night.  *'  Aoiima  mia  " —  my  Soul ! 
Was  I  indeed  his  soul  ?  his  very  soul  ?  more  than 
his  heart — more  than  his  wife — more  even  than 
himself  ?  Nay,  better  than  himself— his  soul,  the 
spiritual  and  divine  part  of  his  nature — the  gift 
of  God !  I  kissed  the  paper,  hid  it  in  my  bosom, 
and  went  up  again  to  my  place  by  the  bedside. 
Alas !  on  what  trifles  do  our  smiles  and  tears 
depend,  and  how  eagerly  we  interpret  all  things 
to  our  comfort !  I  had  already  forgotten  much 
that  was  unexplained  in  his  conduct,  much  that 
had  pained  me  in  his  speech ;  and,  child  that  I 
was !  blamed  only  myself  for  my  past  uneasi- 
ness. 

My  aunt  continued  to  sleep  all  that  evening, 
and'  Dr.  Topham  to  sit  before  the  fire,  drinking 
strong  tea  to  keep  himself  awake.  At  ten 
o'clock,  seeing  how  worn  out  I  was,  he  insisted 
on  dismissing  me  for  the  night,  and  so  I  found 
myself  once  more  occupying  the  same  bedroom 
which  was  mine  years  ago.  Perhaps  I  fell 
asleep  dreaming  the  same  dreams,  and,  waking, 
found  myself  whispering  the  same  name  as  of 
old! 


CHAPTER    XLIII. 

MY  AUNT  AND  THE  DOCTOR  CONTINUE   TO   DIFFER. 

"  Mrs.  S.,"  said  Dr.  Topham,  "  you  are  con- 
siderably better  this  morning." 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind,"  replied  my  aunt.  "  I 
feel  much  weaker." 

"  That  is  because  the  fever  has  left  you.'' 

My  aunt  shook  her  head. 

"  And  for  that  very  reason,"  persisted  the 
doctor,  "  you  are  better." 

"  I  am  a  great  deal  worse,"  said  my  aunt, 
"  and  worn  out  for  want  of  sleep." 

"But  you  have  slept  profoundly  all  night 
long,"  urged  the  doctor.- 

*'  Not  a  wink,"  said  my  aunt. 

"  Thirteen  hours,  by  my  watch,"  said  the 
doctor. 

"  Thirteen  fiddlesticks  !"•  ejaculated  my  aunt 
contemptuously. 

The  doctor  turned  red,  and  took  up  his  hat 
with  great  dignity. 

"  I  presume,  Mrs.  Sandyshaft,"  said  he,  "that 
I  may  be  allowed  to  trust  the  testimony  of  my 
senses.  I  tell  you  that  you  have  slept,  and  I 
tell  you  that  you  are  better.    If  you  do  not 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


119 


choose  to  believe  me,  you  are  at  liberty  to  call 
in  any  other  opinion  you  please." 

"  Of  course  I  am,"  said  my  aunt,  tartly.  "  I 
knew  that  without  your  telling  me." 

Dr.  Topham  bowed  his  stiffest  bow. 

"  And  as  to  the  matter  of  better  or  worse,  I 
suppose  I  am  the  best  judge  of  my  own  feel- 
ings," added  my  aunt. 

The  doctor  bowed  again. 

"  If  I  choose  to  die,  it's  my  business,  and  con- 
cerns nobody  but  myself — eh  ?" 

"  Oh,  certainly  !" 

"And  if  I  choose  to  live " 

"If  you  choose  to  live,  Mrs.  Sandyshaft," 
interrupted  the  doctor,  dwelling  somewhat  satiri- 
cally on  the  verb,  "  you  will  also  cfioose,  I  hope, 
to  assign  me  some  little  credit  for  my  share  in 
helping  you  to  do  so." 

My  aunt  smiled  good-humoredly. 

"  Topham,"  said  she,  "  you  are  an  idiot,/Tind 
I  have  always  told  you  so.  I  suppose  I  am 
better,  or  I  should  not  have  the  spirit  to  quarrel 
with  you." 

"  Quarrel  with  me  as  much  as  you  please,  my 
dear  friend,"  replied  the  little  man,  with  a  sud- 
den break  in  his  voice,  and  an  odd  quivering  of 
the  lip.  "  Abuse  me  to  your  heart's  content — 
I  deserve  it  all,  and  I  was  a  fool  to  be  irritated. 
I  ought  to  have  been  glad — I  am  glad — I — I  am 
more  glad  than  I  know  how  to  express.  Bless 
my  heart,  you  couldn't  have  aggravated  me  yes- 
terday, if  your  life  had  depended  on  it !" 

"I  don't  believe  I  could,"  admitted  my  aunt ; 
"  but  Where's  Bab  all  this  time  ?" 

Whereupon  Bab,  who  had  been  listening 
behind  the  door,  with  a  strong  inclination  to 
laugh  and  an  equally  strong  inclination  to  cry, 
came  in  precipitately,  and  spoiled  the  situation 
by  yielding  to  both  weaknesses  at  once. 

"  Good  gracious,  Bab,"  said  my  aunt  testily, 
"  you're  more  tiresome  than  the  doctor !  Be 
quiet,  for  goodness'  sake,  and  don't  make  your 
eyes  red." 

"Ay,  to  be  sure,  Miss  Barbara,  don't  you 
see  that  your  conduct  is  neither  agreeable  nor 
well-timed?'.'  chuckled  the  doctor,  rubbing  his 
hands.  "  Don't  you  linow  that  sentiment  is 
misplaced,  and  that  your  aunt  wants  her  break- 
fast ?  You  do  want  your  breakfast,  don't  you, 
Mrs.  S.  ?  You  are  experiencing  a  return  of  ap- 
petite, are  you  not,  Mrs.  S.?" 

My  aunt  reluctantly  conceded  the  point,  and 
Dr.  Topham  rang  the  bell,  and  ordered  a  supply 
of  tea  and  toast  immediately. 

"  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  ma'am,"  he  said, 
"  those  thirteen  hours  of  sleep  have  been  the 
salvation  of  you.  All  that  you  now  want  is 
nutriment — beef-tea,  jellies,  port  wine,  tonics 
and  all  the  good  things  we  can  think  of;  and 
if  you  are  not  strong  and  well  in  three  weeks 
from  this,  I'll  lose  my  head." 

"  No  great  loss,  either,"  observed  my  aunt, 
politely. 

"  You  flatter  me." 

"  But  of  one  thing,  Topham,"  she  continued, 
breaking  her  toast  into  the  cup  which  I  was 
holding,  "  I  may  as  well  warn  you  at  once.  I 
take  no  more  of  your  poison." 

"  Poison  !"  echoed  the  doctor,  aghast. 

"Ay,  poison.  I've  had  enough  of  it  —  too 
much,  I  dare  say  ;  but  if  so,  I  forgive  you.  At 
all  events,  I'll  not  touch  another  drop  of  it ;  and 


if  you  send  me  any  more,  I'll  make  you  drink 
it." 

"  Mrs.  Sandyshaft,"  began  the  doctor,  "  you 
are  the  most  unreasonable,  and  the  most " 

"Topham,"  interposed  my  aunt,  "hold  your 
tongue.  If  you  were  to  talk  till  midnight  it 
would  make  no  difference.  Bab,  my  dear,  you 
don't  look  nearly  so  old  this  morning." 

"  My  dear  aunt,"  I  replied,  "  that  is  becaufe 
I  am  so  happy.  Yesterday,  you  know,  I  was 
both  very  tired  and  very  anxious  —  and  besides 
I,  also,  am  only  just  recovering  from  an  ill- 
ness."        , 

She  looked  at  me  tenderly,  and  patted  my 
cheek,  just  as  she  used  to  pat  it  when  she  was 
pleased  with  me,  years  ago. 

"Poor  Bab!"  she  said.  "Poor  little  Bab! 
What  has  been  the  matter  with  you  ?  Over 
study  ?" 

"No  —  home-sickness,  I  think.  I  pined  to 
come  back  to  England  again,  and  fell  ill." 

"  Ay  —  true.  They  sent  you  to  some  foreign 
school,  did  they  not  ?  Yes,  yes.  I  remember. 
I  wrote  to  you,  and  your  father  sent  me  back 
my  letter.  He  would  not  tell  me  where  you 
were,  Bab,  and  he  would  not  send  my  letter  to 
you.  I  wonder  he  has  allowed  you  to  come  to 
me  at  all ;  but  I  suppose  he  thought  I  was 
dying,  and  it  couldn't  matter  !" 

"  Oh,  my  dear  aunt,  did  you  really  write  to 
me?" 

"  Write  to  you,  child !  Ay,  to  be  sure  I  did 
—  and,  after  you  were  gone,  would  have  given 
all  I  possessed  to  get  you  back  again.  Not  that 
lever  confessed  so  much,  however!  No — I 
was  too  proud  to  do  that.  Mercy  on  us,  whit 
fools  we  all  are !" 

"  And  I  who  thought  you  had  forgotten  me  ! 

I  who  was  also  too  proud  to  —  to I  shall 

never  forgive  myself!"  , 

My  aunt,  who  had  all  this  time  been  progress- 
ing with  her  tea  and  toast  in  the  most  matter-of- 
fact  manner,  dealt  me  a  smart  blow  with  the 
spoon,  and'bade  me  hold  my  peace. 

"  Here  you  are,"  said  she,  "  and  that's  enough. 
Don't  let  us  have  any  whimpering  about  it. 
Now  tell  me,  were  you  happy  at  the  outlandish 
place  they  sent  you  to  ?  And  did  they  treat 
you  kindly  when  you  were  ill  ?  And  did  you 
learn  any  thing  worth  knowing,  besides  their 
gibberish  ?  Come,  you  have  plenty  of  news  for 
me,  Bab." 

"  All  of  which  must  for  the  present  be  reserv- 
ed," interposed  the  doctor.  "  Mrs.  S.,  I  am  not 
going  to  let  you  talk  yourself  into  a  relapse  of 
the  fever.  Miss  Barbara,  I  forbid  every  thing 
like  news.  Suppose  that  you  and  I  take  a  turn 
in  the  garden  together,  while  your  aunt  rests 
from  the  fatigue  of^this  last  half-hour  ?" 

Saying  which,  and  despite  my  aunt's  remon- 
strances, he  drew  my  arm  through  his,  and  led 
me  from  the  room.  In  the  parlor  below,  we 
found  Hugh  waiting.  He  had  come  round 
quietly  by  the  back-way,  and,  true  to  his  pro- 
mise, was  in  time  for  breakfast. 

"  Well,  little  wife  !"  said  he.  "  Well,  doctor, 
what  news  of  your  patient?" 

"  The  best  —  the  best  in  the  world,"  replied 
Dr.  Topham,  joyfully.  "  A  reaction  has  taken 
place,  and  the  danger  is  past.  I  believe  we 
must  thank  Mrs.  Farquhar  for  some  share  in  this 
result." 


120 


BARBARA'S   HISTORY. 


My  husband  smiled,  and  drew  me  fondly  to 
his  side. 

"  I  have  more  than  once  found  her  to  be  the 
best  of  physicians,"  he  said. 

"Well,  last  night  she  surpassed  herself,  for 
she  sent  Mrs.  Sandyshaft  to  sleep  for  thirteen 
consecutive  hours.  But  you,  by  the  by,  look  as 
if  you  had  scarcely  slept  at  all." 

"  I  ?"  said  Hugh,  with  some  embarrassment. 
"  Oh,  I  am  right  enough.  I  sat  up  late  with  my 
steward,  looking  through  the  accounts." 

"Very  foolish,  vei-y  foolish,  indeed!"  said 
Dr.  Topham.  "  What  business  has  ^n  independ- 
ent man  to  work  by  night,  when  every  hour  of 
the  day  is  at  his  disposal  ?  Barbara^  my  dear, 
you  must  not  let  your  husband  do  these  incon- 
siderate things.  See  how  haggard  and  ill  he 
looks  to-day !" 

"  Nonsense,  doctor,  I  tell  you  I  am  well 
enough,"  exclaimed  Hugh,  impatiently.  "  I  do 
not  habitually  sit  up  beyond  midnight,  but  last 
night " 

"  Last  night  you  had  no  one  to  call  you  to 
order,  eh  ?"  suggested  the  doctor.  "  Well, 
well,  we  must  bind  you  over  to  keep  good  hours 
for  some  few  nights  yet  to  come  —  that  is,  if 
you  will  spare  us  our  physician  till  the  patient 
is  out  of  all  danger  ?" 

"  Nay,  for  how  long  will  that  be  ?" 

"Four  or  five  days,  at  the  most." 

"  Four  or  five  days  !"  repeated  my  husband. 
"  Steal  my  little  Barbara  from  me  for  four  or 
five  days  —  why,  I  shall  be  lost  without  her !" 

But  though  he  sighed  as  he  said  this,  and 
played  reluctantly  with  my  hair,  a  strange,  im- 
probable notion  flashed  across  my  mind.  Could 
it  be  a  relief  to  him  that  I  must  stay  for  some 
days  longer  at  Stoneycroft  Hall  ? 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

THE   FIRST  NIGHT   AT  BROOMHILL. 

Hamlet. — Do  you  see  nothing  there  ? 
Queen. — Nothing  at  all ;  yet  all  that  is  I  see 

Shakspeare. 

"  Well,  Bab,  what's  done  can't  be  undone," 
observed  my  aunt,  "  and  marriages,  they  say, 
are  made  in  heaven  —  though,  for  my  part,  I  be- 
lieve they  are  much  oftener  concocted  in  t'other 
place.  I  suppose  we  must  just  try  to  make  the 
best  of  it."   . 

"  Try  to  make  the  best  of  it !"  I  repeated. 
"  Why,  my  dear  aunt,  there  is  no  effort  needed. 
I  am  perfectly  happy." 

My  aunt  shook  her  head,  ominously. 

"Poor  child  —  poor  little  Bab!"  said  she. 
"  So  young !  Such  a  tender,  foolish,  inexperi- 
enced baby  !  Oh,  dear !  oh,  dear  !  She  ought 
to  be  at  school  now.  Farquhar  of  Broomhill, 
indeed !  A  man  old  enough  to  be  her  father " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  aunt,"  I  interposed, 
somewhat  warmly.  "  Hugh  is  only  thirty -four, 
and,  for  freshness  of  feeling,  might  be  ten  years 
younger." 

"Freshness  of  fiddlededee  !"  said  my  aunt. 
"What  freshness  of  feeling  can  any  man  retain, 
after  knocking  about  the  world  for  ten  or  fifteen 
years?  Why,  child,  he  is  the  most  unsettled, 
uncivilizedj  uncertain  of  God's  creatures !  He'll 
be  taking  you  here,  and  there,  and  everywhere 


all  your  life  long,  just  as  the  fancy  strikes  him  ; 
and  as  to  a  quiet  life  and  a  happy  home,  you'll 
never  know  what  they  are  for  six  months  toge- 
ther. I  confess  to  you,  Bab,  that  I'm  disap- 
pointed. I  thought  to  have  had  you  back,  and 
to  have  kept  you  with  me  for  as  few,  or  as  many, 
years  as  I  may  have  to  live  ;  and  now  I  find  you 
whipped  off"  by  a  fellow  who  may  take  you  next 
week  to  the  antipodes,  for  aught  that  I  can  say 
or  do  to  prevent  it !     It's  aggravating,  Bab." 

"But,  my  dear  aunt,  I  have  already  explained 
this  to  you,  and  told  you  that  I  now  hope  to 
settle  permanently  at  Broomhill.  What  more 
can  you  desire  than  to  have  me  always  near  you, 
and  united  to  the  man  whom  I  love  best  in  the 
world  — whom  I  have  loved  all  my  life  ?" 

"  You  might  as  well  have  fallen  in  love  with 
the  weathercock  on  my  bam  I"  exclaimed  my 
aunt,  "But  it  was  my  own  fault  ever  to  have 
made  his  acquaintance — I,  who  hated  the  very 
name  of  Farquhar !  I,  who  would  not  have 
crossed  his  father's  threshold  for  a  hundred 
pounds  !" 

"  But  you  liked  him — you  invited  him — you 
visited  him !" 

"  He  amused  me,"  said  my  aunt,  tartly. 
"  And  when  he  was  ill,  you  nursed  him  !" 
"  I  would  have  done  the  same  for  any  one 
else." 

"But  not  in  the  same  way.  Nay,  dear  aunt, 
Hugh  is  my  husband,  and  I  love  him — I  respect 
him — I  honor  him.  I  know  how  brave  and  true 
he  is.  I  know  how  superior  he  is  to  me  in  know- 
ledge, and  what  deep  springs  of  poetry  lie  hidden 
beneath  the  careless  surface  of  his  daily  life.  I 
read  his  noble  nai;ure  though  you  can  not  read  it ; 
and  I  know  how  it  was  embittered  by  solitude 
and  want  of  sympathy.  Be  just  to  him,  I  en- 
treat you  ;  and  if  you  no  longer  feel  the  friend- 
ship you  once  felt  for  him,  for  my  sake,  at  least, 
respect  the  goodness  and  greatness  that  is  in 
him !" 

My  aunt  shrugged  her  slioulders,  and  looked  as 
though  she  pitied  me  for  my  infatuation. 

"He  must  do  something  great  before  I  ac- 
knowledge his  greatness,"  she  said  ;  "  and  as  for 

respect " 

"  And  as  for  respect,"  I  interposed  hastily,  "  I 
am  not  aware  that  my  husband  has  ever  for- 
feited his  just  claim  to  it  from  all  who  know 
him.  You  seem  to  forget,  aunt,  that  he  is,  by 
birth  and  fortune,  a  gentleman." 

"  Oh,  I  forget  nothing — not  even  his  fortune, 
which  he  squanders  abroad  like  an  Englishman 
and  a  fool !" 

I  remained  silent. 

"Nor  his  talents,  which  rust,  for  want  of  use 
— nor  the  idle  life  that  he  has  led  all  these  years, 
dangling  about  picture-galleries,  writing  his 
name  upon  pyramids,  and  shooting  monkeys 
in  American  forests  !  Mercy  on  us  !  what  sort 
of  a  career  do  you  call  that  for  a  county  gentle- 
man ?  I  tell  you,  Bab,  it's  neither  poetry,  nor 
philosophy,  nor  want  of  sympathy  that  sends 
a  man  vagabondizing  all  over  the  world  in  that 
mad  way — it's  the  mere  love  of  excitement,  and 
nothing  else.  The  same  shallow,  vulgar,  fatal 
passion  that  drives  a  poor  man  to  the  ale-house, 
and  a  rogue  to  the  gallows — take  my  word  for 
it." 

What  language  to  stand  by  and  hear  from  her 
lips  !    I  dared  not  trust  my  tongue  to  answer, 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


121 


lest  it  should  utter  something  unforgivable; 
but  I  turned  away,  and,  standing  in  the  deep 
embrasure  of  the  window,  shed  tears  of  mor- 
tification. It  was  the  fourth  day  of  my  stay 
at  Stoneycroft  Hall,  and  my  aunt  was  so  far  re- 
covered that  Hugh  had  arranged  to  come  for 
me  in  the  evening,  and  take  me  home  to  Broom- 
hill.  In  the  mean  time  I  had  told  her  the  story 
of  my  love  and  my  happiness,  and  she,  in  return, 
had  spoken  words  too  bitter,  ah  !  surely  too  bit- 
ter to  carry  with  them  any  leaven  of  the  truth ! 
And  yet — what  if  his  love  for  me  were  only  to 
last  till  the  excitement  had  burnt  out,  and  were 
then  to  crumble  away  into  dust  and  ashes? 
What  if  he  were  to  grow  weary  and  restless,  and 
go  back  some  day  to  his  old  wild  life,  and  leave 
me  weeping  ?  The  thought  was  too  teri'ible.  I 
dared  not  dwell  upon  it. 

Alas  !  life  knows  no  darker  moment  than  that 
which  first  disturbs  our  faith  in  the  fair  romance 
of  the  future.  Happily  our  incredulityis  brief 
The  shock  is  too  rude,  and  the  arrow,  like  vault- 
ing ambition,  "  o'erleaps  itself"  and  flies  beyond 
the  mark.  The  idol  of  a  woman's  love  is  not  so 
easily  hurled  from  its  pedestal.  For  my  part,  I 
believed  only  the  more  implicitly  for  having 
wavered,  however  momentarily,  in  my  faith  ; 
and  so  lifted  my  idol  from  the  dust,  and  kissed 
it  reverently,  and  fell  down  again,  and  wor- 
shiped it. 

It  was  but  the  revolution  of  a  few  moments ; 
yet  in  those  few  moments  I  passed  through  a 
whole  cycle  of  feeling,  and  became,  by  some 
strange  alchemy  of  passion,  other  than  I  was 
before.  What  h5,d  happened  to  me  ?  I  could 
scarcely  tell.  I  only  felt  calmer,  better,  more 
worthy  of  myself  and  him.  Ten  years  seemed 
to  have  flown  suddenly  over  my  head,  and  to 
have  brought  with  them  clearer  convictions  of 
duty,  and  deeper  resources  of  self-help.  My 
pride  as  a  woman,  my  dignity  as  a  wife,  were 
developed,  as  it  were,  spontaneously,  from  this 
ordeal  of  doubt";  and  I  felt  that,  happen  what 
might,  no  deed  or  thought  of  mine  should  ever 
seem  to  sanction  the  injustice  of  others.  Whose 
tongue  so  fit  as  mine  to  "smooth  his  name," 
though  all  the  world  should  mangle  it  ?  Whose 
faith  so  necessary,  whose  respect  so  justly  due 
to  him  ?  In  less  time  than  it  has  taken  to  write, 
these  things  succeeded  each  other  in  my  mind, 
and  determined  my  line  of  conduct  for  the  fu- 
ture. 

I  put  back  the  curtain  behind  which  I  had 
concealed  my  trouble,  and  returned  quietly  to 
my  seat  beside  the  bed. 

"  Aunt,"  I  said,  "  for  our  mutual  peace  and 
love,  let  this  conversation  never  be  renewed.  It 
is  my  place  to  silence  those  who  censure  my  hus- 
band— not  to  defend  him,  for  he  needs  no  de- 
fense. His  honor  and  mine,  his  interests  and 
mine,  are  one  ;  and  who  wrongs  him,  injures  me. 
He  will  be  here  in  a  few  moments  to  take  me 
home  for  the  first  time  since  our  marriage — have 
you  nothing  kinder,  nothing  more  just,  to  say  to 
me  before  I  go  ?" 

My  aunt  stirred  uneasily,  but  remained  obsti- 
nately silent,  I  heard  a  carriage  draw  up  at  the 
gate. 

"He  is  here,"  I  said,  earnestly,  "He  is  here, 
and  I  must  leave  you — but  not  thus  ?  Surely, 
not  thus?" 

My  aunt  opened  her  lips,  as  if  to  speak,  and 


shut  them  again  quickly,  like  a  trap.     I  moved 
toward  the  door. 

"  Good-by,  then,"  I  faltered. 
"  Bab,"  said  my  aunt,  "  come  back." 
I  was  at  her  bedside  almost  before  the  words 
were  out  of  her  mouth, 

"  I  am  an  old  woman,"  she  continued,  turning 
her  face  from  me,  "  and  no  wiser,  I  dare  say, 
than  my  neighbors.  As  for  my  politeness,  or 
my  'good  temper,  the  less  we  say  about  either, 
the  better.  Remember,  child,  that  I  am  disap- 
pointed. I  didn't  want  you  to  marry,  and  I 
didn't  dream  you'd  marry  for  many  a  year  to 
come ;  and  it  aggravates  me  that  you  should 
have  chosen  a  man  who  never  lives  on  his  acres, 
alid  who  may  carry  you  off  to  Timbuctoo  any 
day,  at  a  moment's  notice." 

"  My  dear  aunt,"  I  began ;  but  she  stopped 
me  with  a  gesture. 

"  Don't  interrupt  me,  Bab.  I  hate  it.  Now, 
listen  to  me.  I  dare  say  I  said  some  harsh 
things  just  now — if  I  did,  forget  them.  I  dare 
say  they  were  true  enough,  too  ;  but  that's  not 
to  the  purpose.  You  may  think  'em  all  false, 
if  you  please  ;  and  as  to  this  precious  husband 
of  yours,  why,  I  dare  say  he  is  not  so  bad  as  he 
seems.  If  he  only  makes  you  happy,  Bab,  I'll 
forgive  him." 

"  If  he  did  not,"  thought  I  to  myself,  "  I  would 
never  tell  you,  Aunt  Sandyshaft !" 

"But  you  must  make  him  live  in  England," 
she  continued.  "Be  sure  you  make  him  live  in 
England." 

"  Nay,"  said  I,  "  of  that  you  may  be  certain. 
Is  it  not  my  own  dearest  wish  ?" 

"  Ay,  then  you  may  go.  Stay,  though— one 
may  as  well  be  civil,  even  to  the  devil.  Let  him 
come  up  and  see  me." 

"  Who,  aunt  ?     The  devil  ?" 
"  Nonsense,  child  !     Your  husband,  of  course. 
Who  else  ?" 

It  was  an  ungracious  invitation ;  but  I  worded 
it  more  pleasantly,  and  brought  him  to  her  room. 
"  So  !  Hugh  Farquhar,"  she  began,  before  he 
h^d  time  to  open  his  lips,  "  what  business  had 
you  to  steal  my  Bab  ?  What  have  you  to  say 
for  yourself?  What  have  you  been  after  all 
these  years  ?  Mischief,  I'll  be  bound  !  There, 
I  know  what  you  are  goirg  to  say,  by  the  ex- 
pression of  your  face — that  is,  by  what's  visible 
of  it.  Why,  man,  you  look  like  a  Skye  terrier, 
with  all  that  hair  about  you  !" 

Hugh  laughed,  good-naturedly,  and  took  a 
seat  by  the  bedside. 

"  Complimentary  as  ever,  I  see,  Mrs.  Sandy- 
shaft,"  he  said.  "  I  am  glad,  however,  to  find 
you  well  enough  to  be  sarcastic.  You  are  look- 
ing better  than  I  expected." 

"  Looking,  indeed  1  I  look  like  a  lendon,  and 
feel  as  sour.  What  right  had  you  to  marry  my 
Bab  ?" 

"  No  right  at  all,  my  dear  Madam ;  but  great 
good  fortune,"  replied  Hugh. 

"  That's  very  true,"  said  my  aunt,  "  and  good 
luck  always  falls  to  those  who  don't  deserve  it. 
She's  too  good  for  you,  by  half,  Hugh  Farquhar ; 
and  that's  the  long  and  short  of  it.  Come,  tell 
me  what  you've  been  doing  all ^  these  years? 
Buying  more  pictures  at  six  thousand  pounds 
apiece,  eh  ?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  have  been  improving  my- 
self in  arithmetic  and  self-denial,  and  learning 


122 


BARBARA'S   HISTORY. 


how  to  balance  my  love  of  art  against  my  bank- 
ing book." 

"  Humph  !  so  much  the  better.  And  where 
have  you  been  ?    What  have  you  been  doing  ?" 

*'  Since  when,  Mrs.  Sandyshaft  ?" 

"  Why,  since  you  left  England  six  or  seven 
years  ago,  after  so  nearly  making  a  fool  of  your- 
self with  Flora  Bayham." 

A  dark  flush  mounted  to  the  very  roots  of  his 
hair;  but  he  repressed  the  rising  answer,  and 
said  — 

"  I  have  been  to  more  places,  and  had  more 
adventures  than  you  would  care  to  hear,  or  I  to 
tell.  I  have  shot  buffaloes  in  North-America, 
and  tigers  in  the  Indian  jungle  —  I  have  smoked 
my  pipe  in  a  Nile  boat,  and  my  paper  cigarette 
in  a  Mexican  wine-shop  —  I  have  thrown  my 
harpoon  at  a  whale ;  caught  turtles  at  Ascen- 
sion ;  left  my  visiting  card  on  the  peak  of  Ten- 
erifte  ;  and  supped  with  Mr.  Layard  among  the 
ruins  of  Nineveh,  Enfin^  I  have  packed  away 
my  '  sandal  shoon  and  scallop  shell ;'  and  taken 
unto  myself  the  responsibility  of  a  wife.  Will 
that  do,  Mrs.  Sandyshaft ;  or  shall  I  go  into  de- 
tails of  latitude  and  longitude,  ships'  names, 
private  expenses,  and  so  forth  ?" 

"No,  thank  you.  I  had  much  rather  hear 
you  say  that  you've  done  with  all  such  freaks 
for  the  future.  Traveling,  without  any  useful 
object  in  view,  is  folly,  sir,  and  nothing  short  of 
it." 

"  Traveling,  like  love,  my  dear  madam,  is  the 
folly  of  the  wise  man,  and  the  wisdom  of  the 
fool.  Now  I  am  modest  enough  to  fancy  that 
it  has^T^een  my  wisdom." 

"  Well,  supposing  that  I  admit  this  proposi- 
tion, can  you  tell  me  what  have  been  the  fruits 
of  your  wisdom  ?  What  you  have  gained  by  all 
this  gadding  about,  and  what  you  have  learned  ?" 

"  tJnquestionably.  I  have  acquired  an  ad- 
mirable judgment  of  old  masters  and  cigars  — 
learned  the  art  of  playing  the  castanets,  and 
throwing  the  lasso  —  studied  every  variety  of 
war-whoop,  under  the  best  native  teachers  ;  and 
practiced  the  art  of  fishing  by  night  with  a  lamp 
and  a  knife,  till  I  defy  the  most  practiced  mount- 
aineer to  excel  me." 

"  Meritorious  and  useful  in  the  highest  de- 
gree !"  said  my  aunt.     "  Pray,  is  that  all  ?" 

"  Not  half,"  replied  Hugh,  determined  not  to 
observe  the  growing  bitterness  with  which  she 
listened.  "  I  can  interpret  a  Turkish  love-let- 
ter, and  frame  an  answer  in  return.  I  can  eat 
rice  with  chop-sticks,  and  dine  off*  caviare  with- 
out holding  my  nose.  I  can  dance  like  a  der- 
vish, fli^ig  a  lance  like  a  Bedouin,  cook  chowder 
like  a  Yankee " 

"  Enough,"  interrupted  my  aunt.  "  Don't 
fatigue  yourself  with  more  examples.  In  a  wig- 
wam, or  a  desert,  I  have  no  doubt  that  you  are 
a  delightful  companion ;  but  here,  I  fear,  your 
accomplishments  will  not  meet  with  the  respect 
they  merit.  The  conversation  and  habits  of  our 
English  gentry  will  be  intolerable  to  you,  after 
the  wit  and  refinement  of  your  Choctaw  and 
Tartar  friends." 

"  True  ;  but  when  I  weary  of  civilized  socie- 
ty, I  can  takefc  refuge  in  yours." 

My  aunt  smiled  grimly.  Like  a  good  fencer, 
'she  could  applaud  her  adversary's  "  very  palpa- 
ble hit,"  and  like  him  the  better  for  it. 

'*Done,"  said  she.     "My  barbarity  will  al- 


ways be  at  your  service.  In  the  mean  time,  I 
recommend  you  to  let  your  Asiatic  talents  lie 
dormant  for  the  present.  Don't  be  throwing 
the  lasso  at  your  neighbor's  cows,  or  the  javelin 
at  my  pigs,  or  you  may  find  the  sport  expensive. 
Now,  good  night  to  you." 

Thus  abruptly  dismissed,  we  took  our  leave, 
and  as  I  kissed  her,  she  whispered,  "  Come  back 
to-morrow,  Bab.  I'm  a  cross  old  woman,  but  I 
can't  do  without  you." 

An  old-fashioned  yellow  chariot  was  waiting 
at  the  gate,  with  lighted  lamps  and  a  pair  of 
patient  horses.  The  coachman  started  from  a 
doze  at  the  sound  of  our  voices.  He  was  a  very 
old  man,  and  touched  his  hat  to  me  as  I  got  in  ; 
then  feebly  gathered  up  the  reins,  and  drove  us 
at  a  foot  pace  down  the  hill.  Hugh  flung  him- 
self impatiently  into  a  corner,  and  found  fault 
with  every  thing. 

"  A  delightful  mode  of  progression,  certain- 
ly !"  he  exclaimed.  "  It  carries  us  back,  Bar- 
barina,  to  the  time  of  our  forefathers,  and 
proves  the  possibility  of  going  from  London  to 
York  in  four  days  by  the  '  Flying  Coach.'  Did 
you  ever  see  such  a  musty  old  vehicle  ?  It  was 
ray  father's  coach,  built  for  him  on  his  marriage. 
Faugh  !  it  smells  of  cobwebs !  I  unearthed  it 
yesterday,  and  had  it  furbished  up  for  your 
ladyship's  state  progress.  That  relic  of  anti- 
quity on  the  driving-box  was  my  father's  coach- 
man, and  my  grandfather's  also,  I  believe.  I 
had  to  unearth  him  as  well ;  for  he  has  been 
lodge-keeper  these  last  fifteen  years.  As  for 
the  horses,  they  are  as  old  arid  out  of  date  as 
the  rest  of  the  equipage,  and  have  been  doing 
duty  at  the  plow  this  many  a  year.  Corpo  di 
Bacco  !  if  we  stay  in  this  place,  what  a  revolu- 
tion I'll  effect !  I'll  build  a  billiard-room,  and  a 
private  theater.  I'll  keep  hunters,  and  a  French 
cook,  and  teach  you  to  follow  the  hounds  !  How 
will  you  like  that,  my  little  wife  ?" 

I  shook  my  head.  His  restless  gayety  jarred 
upon  me,  and  my  heart  was  full  of  a  very  dif- 
ferent future. 

"  I  should  not  like  it  at  all,  Hugh,"  I  said, 
sadly.  "  I  had  far  rather  transfer  to  Broomhill 
the  quiet  life  we  led  in  Italy — that  happy  life  of 
books  and  art,  that  suits  us  both  so  well." 

"Tush,  child  1"  he  answered,  lightly,  "the 
dolce  far  niente  needs  a  Southern  sky.  In  this 
bitter  North,  men  are  driven  to  rough  stimulants, 
and  need  something  more  than  books  to  stir  the 
currents  of  their  blood.  For  my  part,  when  in 
England,  I  almost  lived  in  the  saddle.  By  the 
by,  you  were  asking  about  Satan  !" 

"  Satan,"  I  repeated,  vaguely ;  thinking  less 
of  the  question  than  of  what  had  gone  before. 
"What  of  him  V" 

"  He's  dead,  poor  brute.  A  good  horse  he 
was,  too — ^pure  Arabian." 

"But  surely,"  I  said,  anxiously,  "  surely  you 
do  not  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  can  never  again 
be  satisfied  to  share  my  quiet  pleasures,  simply 
because  this  is  Broomhill,  and  not  Rome.  Oh, 
Hugh,  when  I  think  how  perfectly  happy  we 
have  been  up  to  this  moment " 

He  laid  his  hand,  laughingly,  upon  my 
mouth. 

"  Silenzio,  Barharina  mia  .^"  he  exclaimed. 
"  We  have  been  happy — we  are  happy — we  may, 
can,  shall,  and  will  be  happy,  etccstera,  etccetera^ 


BARBARA'S   HISTORY. 


123 


etccetera!  Now  look  out,  and  tell  me  if  you 
know  where  we  are  !" 

Where  indeed !  Under  the  arching  branches 
of  the  dear  old  avenue — passing  the  great  gnarl- 
ed oaks,  the  centenarians  of  the  park — approach- 
ing the  cedars,  and  the  Tudor  gateway,  and  all 
the  hallowed  places  photographed  for  years  upon 
my  memory  !  It  was  dark,  and  the  moon  had 
not  yet  risen ;  but  I  could  trace  their  outlines 
through  the  gloom.  We  turned  the  western 
angle,  and  passed  under  the  archway. 

"  One  word,  Hugh,"  I  faltered,  "  one  word 
before  we  reach  the  door.  Is  it  no  pleasure  to 
you  to  bring  me  home  to  your  own  ancestral 
roof  ?     Absolutely  none  ?" 

"  My  dear  love,"  he  said,  hastily,  "  why  revive 
that  vexed  question  at  such  a  moment  ?  Here 
we  are,  and  we  must  make  the  best  of  it.  Stay, 
I  will  get  out  first." 

Make  the  best  of  it !  For  the  second  time 
that  afternoon  I  heard  those  unsatisfying  T^rds. 
Was  there,  indeed,  "something  rotten"  under- 
lying every  condition  of  my  life,  that  I  must 
always  be  warned  to  "  make  the  best  of  it  ?" 
What  was  wrong  ?  What  was  wanting  ?  Whence 
this  vague  trouble,  the  very  source  of  which  I 
knew  not  ? 

Discouraged  and  oppressed,  I  crossed  the 
threshold  of  my  husband's  home,  and  passed  the 
servants  in  the  hall  without  even  observing  that 
they  were  assembled  there  in  ray  honor.  Tip- 
poo  preceded  us  with  a  pair  of  wax-lights,  and 
we  followed  in  silence.  I  scarcely  noticed  to 
which  part  of  the  building  he  was  leading  us. 
I  scarcely  remarked  through  what  a  number  of 
corridors,  and  up  how  many  flights  of  stairs  we 
had  to  go.  Not  till  he  stopped  before  a  gothic 
door,  and  drew  aside  the  curtain  by  which  it  was 
shrouded  within,  did  I  even  guess  that  we  were 
to  dine  that  first  evening  in  the  turret-chamber  ! 
Ah,  the  snug,  secluded,  pleasant  turret-chamber! 
There  it  was,  just  as  I  remembered  it,  with  its 
books,  and  its  busts,  and  its  swinging  lamp,  and 
all  its  graceful  accessories — ay,  even  to  the  green 
and  golden  hookah  in  the  corner,  and  the  table 
glittering  with  glass  and  silver.  Seeing  all  this 
brought  back,  as  it  were,  suddenly,  out  of  the 
past,  I  uttered  an  exclamation  of  joyful  recogni- 
tion. 

"  That's  well,"  said  Hugh.  "  I  fancied  I  should 
please  you  by  bringing  you  to  my  old  snuggery, 
where  we  dined  together  the  day  of  our  first  ac- 
quaintance. Ah,  wifie,  do  you  remember  how 
frightened  you  were  when  I  came  behind  you 
at  the  library  window  ?" 

"Ah,  husband,  do  you  remember  how  you 
forgot  all  about  me,  though  I  was  sitting  in  that 
corner  all  the  time ;  and  how  you  asked  Tippoo 
why  he  laid  a  second  cover?" 

"  IJfay,  did  I  ?  I  had  forgotten  it.  I  recol- 
lect, however,  that  you  had  the  bad  taste  not  to 
like  my  dinner,  and  ate  scarcely  any  thing." 

"  And  the  still  worse  taste  to  be  disappointed 
in  the  Paul  Veronese !  Tell  me,  am  I  yet  for- 
given that  offense  ?" 

Hugh  laughed,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  Not  yet,"  said  he.  "  Not  till  you  have  seen 
it  again  with  your  own,  dear,  sensible  artist-eyes, 
and  performed  a  heavy  penance  of  admiration. 
But  sec,  here  comes  our  dinner.  Tippoo,  desire 
Mrs.  Fairhead  to  send  us  up  a  bottle  of  the  old 
Romance,  and  a  pint  of  the  special  Tokay  with 


the  yellow  seal.  Come,  wife,  we  will  feast  to- 
night, and  make  "  high  holiday."  What  say 
you  ?  Shall  we  dismiss  that  awkward  super- 
numerary in  the  white  cravat,  and  keep  only 
Tippoo  to  wait  upon  us  ?" 

"  Only  Tippoo,  of  course." 

So  the  servant  was  dismissed,  and  Tippoo 
waited  on  us  as  noiselessly  and  dexterously  as 
the  slave  of  the  lamp.  We  jested,  we  laughed, 
we  drank  toasts,  and  were  as  gay  as  children  out 
of  school.  Every  thing  that  evening  seemed 
delicious,  and  life  all  rose-color.  My  husband 
exerted  himself  solely  to  amuse  me ;  and  if  it 
did  once  or  twice  occur  to  me  that  he  made  an 
effort  to  be  gay — that  if  he  ceased  one  moment 
to  make  that  effort,  he  would  relapse  into  the 
sullen  gloom  which  had  of  late  become  his  fre- 
quent mood — I  banished  it,  and  flattered  myself 
that  I  was  mistaken. 

After  dinner  we  sat  long  over  our  coflFee  and 
dessert,  and  talked  of  Italy,  and  Rome,  and  our 
wanderings  in  the  Alps ;  and  looked  through  a 
portfolio  of  rare  etchings  that  he  had  brought 
from  the  library  to  show  me ;  and  planned  how 
we  would  go  to  Yenice  and  the  Tyrol  some  day, 
and  perhaps  as  far  as  Constantinople.  Ah,  what 
a  child  I  was,  and  how  little  made  me  happy  ! 

Thus  the  pleasant  evening  passed  away,  and 
it  was  almost  midnight  before  we  went  to  bed. 
This  brings  me  to  something  which  I  must  tell 
in  its  place — something  so  strange,  so  uncom- 
fortable, that  merely  to  recall  it  brings  back  the 
shuddering  disquiet  of  the  moment  when  it  hap- 
pened. 

The  house  was  very  still.  As  I  have  already 
said,  it  was  just  midnight,  and  the  servants,  used 
to  country  hours,  had  long  since  retired.  Tip- 
poo waited,  as  usual,  in  my  husband's  dressing- 
room,  ready,  if  we  rang,  to  attend  upon  us.  To- 
night, however,  being  still  in  merry  conversa- 
tion, we  did  not  care  to  summon  him  ;  so  Hugh 
took  the  lamp  himself  and  led  the  way.  It  was 
a  very  powerful  lamp,  with  a  shade  over  it,  which 
concentrated  the  light  into  one  intense  circle, 
and  left  all  beyond  in  darkness.  As  we  went 
out  into  the  corridor,  suffering  the  door  of  the 
turret-chamber  to  swing  back  with  a  reverbera- 
ting echo,  I  laughingly  compared  the  effect  of  this 
light  to  that  of  a  lantern  in  a  fine  Rembrandt 
^etching  of  the  Nativity,  which  we  had  been  ad- 
miring a  little  while  ago.  Whereupon  Hugh, 
profanely  humoring  the  idea,  fell  into  the  ma- 
jestic attitude  of  the  chief  shepherd,  and  inton- 
ed the  first  verse  of  a  drawling  Christmas  carol. 
It  was  a  boyish  trick,  boyishly  done  —  one  of 
those  foolish  jests  that  arise  when  two  people 
are  in  high  spirits,  and  no  third  stands  by  to 
keep  them  within  the  bounds  of  common-sense. 

At  that  very  moment  I  saw  something  darker 
than  the  darkness  glide  down  the  gloom  of  the 
corridor.  I  looked  at  Hugh ;  but  he  had  evi- 
dently seen  nothing. 

"  Hush  !"  I  said  shudderingly.  "  Don't  wake 
the  echoes  of  these  great  wandering  passages, 
at  such  an  hour  of  the  night.  Let  us  go  on.  I 
shall  never  dare  to  walk  about  this  house  alone, 
after  dark !" 

"  Why  not,  child  ?  We  have  nothing  so  vul- 
gar as  a  ghost  in  the  family.     But  you  tremble !" 

I  muttered  something  about  the  cold,  and  he 
put  his  arm  around  me,  quickening  his  pace  the 
while.    We  were  now  at  the  head  of  the  great 


124 


BARBARA'S   HISTORY. 


well-staircase,  and  again,  if  I  were  not  strangely 
mocked  by  my  own  terrors,  I  saw  the  dark  shad- 
ow stealing  swiftly  down  before  us.  To  keep 
silent  longer  was  impossible. 

"  What's  that  ?"  I  cried,  clinging  to  the  bal- 
ustrade, and  pointitig  downward  with  unsteady 
finger.  "  What's  that  ?  See  !  —  see  where  it 
goes  !" 

He  snatched  the  shade  from  the  lamp,  and 
held  it  at  arm's  length  over  the  deep  shaft. 

"  Where  what  goes  ?"  said  he,  shifting  the 
light  so  that  it  fell  from  flight  to  flight,  and  from 
side  to  side,  down  all  the  windings  of  the  stairs, 
till  lost  in  the  lower  darkness.     "  I  see  nothing." 

"  Nor  I — and  yet  I  am  positive — -just  now — a 
figure — it  could  not  have  been  fancy  !" 

"It  was  fancy,  then,  and  nothing  else.  Why, 
Barbarina,  I  never  dreamed  that  you  were  such  a 
coward.     You  shake  from  head  to  foot !" 

So  I  did,  and  was  too  thoroughly  frightened 
to  be  even  ashamed  of  my  terror.  I  only  clung 
to  his  arm,  and  implored  him  to  hurry  on  ;  and, 
when  we  came  to  our  own  bright,  snug  bed-room, 
with  its  cheerful  lights  and  crackling  wood-fire, 
bolted  the  door,  and  sank  into  an  easy-chair 
with  a  deeper  sense  of  relief  than  I  had  ever 
known  in  my  life  before. 

Was  it  fancy — fancy  and  nothing  else  ? 

Revolving  that  question  in  my  mind,  I  lay 
awake  long  after  Hugh  had  fallen  into  his  first 
deep  sleep  :  and  all  through  the  night,  at  inter- 
vals that  seemed,  in  my  restlessness,  to  follow 
each  other  with  scarcely  a  moment's  intermis- 
sion, started  from  uneasy  dreams  to  listen,  and 
Wonder,  and  ask  myself  the  same  thing  over 
and  over  again.  * 


CHAPTER  XLY. 

THE    SHAKSPEARE    FOLIO    OF    1623. 
"  Out,  damned  spot !" — Macbeth. 

"Fear  is  a  night-bird,  and  vanishes,  like  the 
owl,  at  sunrise.  Come,  wife,  are  you  not 
ashamed  to  have  been  such  a  coward  ?" 

Seeing  the  bright  day  pouring  in  at  every  win- 
dow and  lighting  up  the  brown  and  amber  foli- 
age of  the  sere  woodlands  round  about,  I  was 
thoroughly  ashamed,  and  owned  it  freely. 

"  As  for  apparitions,"  continued  Hugh,  alter- 
nately sipping  his  coffee  and  examining  the  lock 
of  his  gun,  "  we  decline  to  harbor  any  such 
spiritual  rogues  and  vagabonds.  We  leave  them 
to  the  tender  mercies  of  Messrs.  Dumas  and  Co., 
to  be  dealt  with  according  to  the  law  of  public 
taste.  Broomhill,  my  child,  abounds  in  game — 
not  ghosts.  Now  it  is  my  firm  belief  that  I  shall 
shoot  a  dozen  pheasants  before  dinner." 

"  Not  till  you  have  first  made  the  tour  of  the 
house  with  me,  Hugh — and.  I  am  longing  to  ex- 
plore every  nook  and  corner  of  it." 

■  "  Nonsense,  love  ;  the  house  will  not  run  away. 
You  are  mistress  here,  and  can  see  it  at  any 
time." 

"  And  because  I  am  mistress,  I  mean  to  see  it 
at  once.  There,  lay  your  gun  aside.  Grant  the 
pheasants  a  reprieve  for  my  sake,  and  indulge 
me  this  one  morning  with  your  company." 

"  And  why  will  not  Mrs.  Fairhead  do  as  well  ? 
She  knows  the  house  and  its  history  far  better 
than  I." 

"  Mrs.  Fairhead  may  come  too  ;  but  I  can  not 
do  without  you." 


"  Quatre-vingt  mille  tonnerres  !  What  do  you 
want  with  me  ?" 

"  A  hundred  things.  I  want  you  to  show  me 
the  Paul  Veronese ;  and  the  ball-room  where  the 
accident  happened ;  and  the  library.  And  I  want 
you  to  introduce  me  to  your  ancestors  in  the 

matted  gallery " 

"  I  hate  my  ancestors,"  said  Hugh,  irreve- 
rently. 

"  And  I  want  you  to  tell  me  the  history  of  all 

that  old  armor  in  the  west  wiijg,  and " 

"  Then  it  is  quite  evident,  Barbarina,  that  your 
wants  far  exceed  my  resources.  Come,  let  us 
compound  the  matter.  I  will  go  with  you  through 
the  library  and  the  matted  gallery,  and  you  must 
be  content  with  Mrs.  Fairhead's  company  the 
rest  of  the  way.  She  is  a  wonderful  old  lady,  I 
assure  you,  and  has  all  the  genealogy  of  the  Far- 
quhar  family  at  her  fingers'  ends.  She  will  show 
you  every  thing,  and  explain  every  thing,  from  the 
plate-closet  to  the  picture-gallery,  with  the  ac- 
curacy and  elegance  of  a  catalogue  raisonnee. 
Bid  her  discourse,  and  she  will  enchant  thine  ear 
for  hours  on  the  fashion  of  a  morion,  the  tone 
of  a  Murillo,  or  the  pattern  of  a  Majolica  service. 
ArchjBology  is  not  too  heavy,  nor  court  scandal 
too  light  for  her.  She  will  relate  all  about  the 
battle  of  Worcester  better  than  the  Boscobel 
tracts,  and  tell  sad  stories  of  the  freaks  of  kings, 
when  de  Querouailles  became  Duchesses  in  the 
land,  and  orange-girls  rode  in  coaches  to  White- 
hall.    As  for  architecture " 

I  put  my  fingers  in  my  ears,  and  refused  to 
hear  another  word. 

"  Enough  of  Mrs.  Fairhead's  accomplishments !" 
I  cried,  impatiently.  "  Let  us  have  her  up  in 
person,  and  begin  at  once." 

We  rang  for  her,  and  she  came — a  fair,  portly 
sedate  old  lady,  in  an  ample  gray  silk  dress,  with 
a  small  key-basket  in  her  hand,  and  in  the  key- 
basket  a  book  with  a  red  cover.  She  courtesied 
profoundly,  first  to  me,  then  to  Hugh,  and  then 
to  me  again. 

"  We  want  you — that  is,  your  mistress  wants 
you,  to  take  her  over  the  house,  Mrs.  Fairhead," 
said  Hugh. 

*'  I  concluded  as  much,  sir,"  replied  Mrs.  Fair-  j 
head,  with  a  glance  at  the  key-basket,  and  a  side- ' 
glance  of  curiosity  at  myself 

"  We  came  so  late  last  night,  Mrs.  Fairhead," 
continued  Hugh,  "  that  I  forgot  to  present  you  to 
my  wife.  Barbara,  in  Mrs.  Fairhead  you  see  an 
old  and  attached  servant  of  the  family.  One 
whom  we  can  not  value  too  highly." 

Mrs.  Fairhead,  with  the  gravity  of  a  Moham- 
medan at  his  genuflexions,  courtesied  three 
times,  as  before. 

"  When  your  lamented  father  brought  home 
his  lady^  sir,"  she  said,  "  it  was  in  a  carriage  and 
four,  to  the  ringing  of  the  church-bells  ;  and  we 
servants,  fourteen  of  us,  received  our  mistress 
in  the  hall,  and  very  happy  and  proud  we  were. 
But  now,  sir,  the  house  is  more  than  half  shut 
up,  and  we  had  so  little  time  to  prepare,  and 
your  establishment  for  the  last  twelve  or  fifteen 

years  Tias  been  so  small,  that " 

Hugh  stopped  her  with  a  quiet  gesture. 
"  Mrs.  Farquhar  knows  all  that,"  he  observed, 
"  and  will  make  every  allowance  for  the  neglect- 
ed state  of  the  place.  My  dear,  you  understand 
that  we  are  only  on  a  peace  footing  here,  with 
all  our  cannon  rusted,  and  our  soldiers  out  at 
elbow.  Shall  we  begin  with  the  matted  gaUery  ?" 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


125 


We  began  with  the  matted  gallery,  and  Mrs. 
Fairhead  led  the  way.  It  was  a  noble  room, 
oak-paneled,  lit  from  the  left  by  a  long  line  of 
windows,  and  diminishing  to  a  fine  perspective. 
On  the  side  opposite  the  windows  hung  a  double 
row  of  paintings,  chiefly  family  portraits,  with  a 
sprinkling  of  old  masters ;  and  between  each 
window  stood  a  bracket  with  a  bust  on  it.  At 
the  farther  end,  like  a  note  of  admiration  at  the 
close  of  a  fine  sentence,  stood  a  pedestal,  and  a 
superb  Roman  vase  of  dark  green  marble. 

"  This  gallery,  ma'am,"  began  Mrs.  Fairhead, 
"  occupies  the  upper  floor  of  the  Tudor  wing. 
The  library  occupies  the  ground-floor,  immedi- 
ately beneath  our  feet.     This  wing  was  built  in 

the  "year  fifteen  hundred  and " 

"  Spare  us  the  dates,  my  good  Mrs.  ^air- 
head," interrupted  Hugh,  "and  tell  us  about 
the  pictures.  Who  is  this  scarecrow  in  the 
brown  cloak  and  muffin  cap  ?" 

Mrs.  Fairhead  looked  shocked,  and  said,  with 
increased  gravity : 

"  That,  sir,  is  a  portrait  of  Marmaduke,  fourth 
Baron  de  Grey,  whose  second  daughter,  the 
Lady  Mary,  married  John  Farquhar  of  Broom- 
hill,  the  head  of  this  house,  in  the  year  fifteen 
hundred  and  eleven.  That  is  John  Farquhar's 
portrait  above,  painted  by  the  celebrated  Hol- 
bein. He  appears  in  a  fancy  costume,  supposed 
to  be  the  dress  worn  by  him  at  a  court-enter- 
tainment given  in  honor  of  King  Henry  the 
Eighth's  marriage  with  Queen  Anne  Boleyn." 

"  No  more  painted  by  Holbein  than  by  me  !" 
said  Hugh,  between  his  teeth.  *'  Well,  Mrs. 
Fairhead,  go  on.  Number  seven,  in  a  ruff. 
Who  is  number  seven  ?" 

"  Number  seven,  sir,"  replied  the  house- 
keeper, "  represents  Madam  Eleanor  Farquhar, 
wife  of  Richard  Farquhar  of  Broomhill,  eldest 
son  and  heir  of  John  Farquhar,  just  mentioned. 
Madam  Eleanor  was  the  daughter  of  a  wealthy 
London  merchant,  and  brought  a  considerable 
fortune  to  her  husband.  She  was  a  great 
beauty,  and  her  portrait  is  considered  to  be 
very  curious." 

"  And  so  it  is  —  for  a  beauty !  Well,  Mrs. 
Fairhead,  number  nine  ?" 

*'  The  eldest  son  of  Madam  Eleanor,  and 
Richard  Farquhar,  sir.  This  young  gentleman 
went  out  with  the  Earl  of  Essex's  expedition  in 
fifteen  hundred  and  seventy-six,  and  was  killed 
at  Cadiz,  The  next  three  portraits  represent  the 
next  three  generations — Edward  Farquhar,  high 
sheriff  of  the  county  under  James  the  First ; 
William  Farquhar,  his  eldest  son  and  succes- 
sor ;  and  Richard  Farquhar,  eldest  son  of  the 
last,  who  commanded  a  squadron  at  the  battle 
of  Naseby,  and  died  in  London  of  the  great 
plague,  in  the  year  sixteen  hundred  and  sixty- 
five." 

"  Ay,  I  remember.  One  of  the  few  men  who, 
having  succored  the  exile,  were  remembered  by 
the  king.  He  got  a  commission  in  the  Cold- 
stream Guards,  then  first  levied.  What  busi- 
ness had  he  to  be  painted  thus  ?  He  ought  to 
have  left  us  the  portrait  of  his  uniform,  if  only 
to  give  some  flavor  to  his  own !  Go  on,  Mrs. 
Fairhead !" 

"Portrait  of  the  celebrated  Inigo  Jones," 
began  the  housekeeper,  "  by  whom  the  elegant 
facade  of  the  east  wing  was  designed  in  the  year 
sixteen  hundred  and  nineteen,  and " 


"And  the  effect  of  the  whole  building  de- 
stroyed !"  interposed  Hugh,  shaking  his  fist  at 
the  portrait.  "  You  mischievous,  meretricious 
old  scoundrel,  I  have  a  great  mind  to  make  a 
bonfire  of  you,  next  fifth  of  November  !" 
Mrs.  Fairhead  turned  pale  with  horror. 
"  What,  sir  !"  she  exclaimed,  "  burn  a  painting 
that  has  been  in  your  family  for  generations  ?" 

"  The  more  shame  to  my  forefathers,  for  not 
sparing  me  the  trouble.  And  this  jovial-looking 
warrior  in  the  blue  and  buff  livery  ?" 

"The  portrait  of  Lionel  Farquhar,  Esquire, 
who  was  made  a  major  in  the  Suffolk  militia  in 
the  year  1759  ;  which  was  the  first  year  of  the 
militia  being  raised  in  all  parts  of  JEngland,  in 
consequence  of  the  expected  invasion  of  the 
French  under  King  Lewis  the  Fifteenth." 

"  Oh,  such  marchings  and  counter-marchings, 
from  Brentford  to  Ealing,  from  Ealing  to  Acton, 
from  Acton  to  Uxbridge,"  laughed  Hugh.  "Ah, 
Barbarina,  I  quote  Major  Sturgeon ;  a  hero  with 
whom  you  are  not  acquainted.  Well,  Mrs.  Fair- 
head,  number  fourteen  ?" 

"  Lionel  Farquhar,  Esquire,  junior,  son  of  the 
last,  and  Lieutenant  in  the  Royal  Navy,  under 
Admiral  Lord  Rodney,"  pursued  the  house- 
keeper, keeping  steadily  on,  catalogue  in  hand, 
and  evidently  scandalized  by  our  levity.  "  Num- 
ber fifteen  ;  the  infant  family  of  Lionel  Farqu- 
har, junior,  with  the  family  mansion  in  the 
background.  The  littlfe  boy  in  the  blue  gown 
is  Alexander,  the  eldest  son  and  heir,  whose 
portrait  you  observe  above,  painted  some  years 
later  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds.  Alexander  Far- 
quhar, Esquire,  was  the  first  of  the  name  who 
represented  the  Borough  of  Ipswich  in  the 
House  of  Qommons." 

"  Patriotic  grandpapa  Alexander  !"  ejaculated 
Hugh.  "  Shall  I  follow  his  example,  wife,  and 
present  myself  as  a  candidate  at  the  next  general 
election  ?" 

"  If  your  question  were  put  seriously,  I  should 
ask  time  to  consider,  Hugh,  before  replying." 

"Number  seventeen,  as  I  can  tell  without 
Mrs.  Fairhead's  help,  is  by  Quintin  Matsys  — 
one  of  the  most  curious  and  valuable  paintings 
in  the  house,"  said  he,  without  seeming  to  have 
heard  me.  "It  is  a  variation  on  his  favorite 
'miser'  subject,  one  specimen  of  which  is  at 
Windsor,  and  the  other  at  Antwerp.  Look  at 
that  fellow's  eager  eyes  and  long  greedy  fingers. 
The  picture  is  a  sermon  on  avarice." 

"But  where,"  I  asked,  "is  the  Paul  Ve- 
ronese ?" 

"In  the  dining-room,  I  believe." 
"And  who  is  this  in  the  blue  coat,  and  white 
neck-cloth  ?  What  a  candid,  benevolent  face  !" 
"  That,"  said  Hugh,  a  shade  of  sudden 
anguish  passing  over  his  face,  "is  my  father  — 
my  dear  father,  from  whom  I  parted  in  health, 
and  hope,  and  joy,  as  I  went  out  upon  my  first 
travels ;  and  whom  I  never  saw  in  life  again." 

I  looked  at  the  portrait  with  earnest  interest, 
trying  to  trace  in  it  some  resemblance  to  my 
husband. 

"  You  are  not  like  him,  Hugh,"  I  said. 
"  Only  my  eyes  are  like  his,  and  the  vein  upon 
my  left  temple.  All  the  Farquhars  have  that 
vein  upon  the  temple  —  invisible  when  they  are 
calm,  but  starting  into  angry  relief  in  moments  . 
of  passion.  But  we  have  come  to  the  end  of 
the  portraits." 


126 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


Your  own  should  be  added  now,"  I  sug- 


"  Pshaw  !  I  am  too  ugly." 

"  Ugly,  sposo  mio  /" 

"Ay;  and  too  old." 

"  What  folly  !  I  believe  you  only  want  to  be 
camplimented  on  your  youth  and  beauty.  But, 
indeed,  Hugh,  I  should  like  to  see  your  portrait 
carrying  on  the  line  of  Farquhars." 

"  Then  we  will  both  be  painted,  carina,  when 
we  next  go  up  to  London  for  a  few  weeks.  You 
are  looking  at  that  vase.  It  is  veritable  verde 
antico.  I  bought  it  in  Rome,  on  my  first  visit 
to  Italy,  and  had  shipped  it  home  as  a  present 
to  my  father,  only  a  few  days  before  I  received 
intelligence  of  his  death.  But  these  are  sad 
memories.  Mrs.  Fairhead,  we  will  follow  you 
to  the  library." 

His  gayety  was  gone,  and  we  left  the  gallery 
in  a  mood  very  unlike  that  in  which  we  had 
'  entered  it.  Mrs.  Fairhead  preceded  us  down  the 
great  stone  staircase,  and  paused  to  direct  my 
attention  to  a  large  battle-picture  in  the  hall. 

"  That  subject  ought  to  interest  you,  Barbara," 
observed  Hugh,  seeing  me  turn  away  with 
scarcely  a  glance  at  the  huge  dull  canvas.  "  It 
represents  the  siege  of  Nimeguen." 

"  Why  should  I  be  interested  in  the  siege  of 
Nimeguen?"  asked  I.  "I  am  no  admirer  of 
battle-pieces." 

"  Because  it  was  at  Nimeguen  that  your  hand- 
some ancestor  first  distinguished  himself,  and 
Turenne  predicted  his  future  greatness.  You 
must  know,  Mrs.  Fairhead,"  added  Hugh,  turn- 
ing to  the  housekeeper,  "  that  my  wife  is  de- 
scended from  the  famous  Duke  of  Marlborough." 

Mrs.  Fairhead  dropped  a  profound  courtesy. 

"  The  same  who  won  so  many  battles  against 
the  French,  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne,  and 
whose  portrait,  in  miniature,  hangs  in  my  father's 
study." 

Mrs.  Fairhead  courtesied  lower  than  before, 
and  declared  she  could  see  a  likeness  to  Madam 
about-  the  forehead  and  eyes.  These  facts 
evidently  went  far  to  raise  me  in  her  good 
opinion. 

"And  now,  Barbarina,  for  the  room  of  which 
lam  proudest  in  this  old  house  —  the  library 
accumulated  by  my  forefathers  from  generation 
to  generation  during  a  term  of  nearly  four  hun- 
dred years.  We  have  here  a  manuscript  Horace 
of  the  seventh  century  ;  a  genuine  copy  of  the 
Shakspeare  folio  of  1623;  a  first  edition  of 
Chaucer ;  a  volume  of  unpublished  manuscript 
notes  and  extracts  of  Jeremy  Taylor;  and  I 
know  not  —  what's  the  matter  with  the  lock, 
Mrs.  Fairhead  ?" 

"  Nothing,  sir,  to  my  knowledge,"  replied  the 
housekeeper,  turning  the  key  with  some  little 
difficulty.  "  It  opened  quite  easily  this  morning." 

She  and  Hugh  staid  back  a  moment,  examin- 
ing the  lock,  while  I  pushed  the  door  open,  and 
went  in. 

To  my  surprise,  l'  heard  another  door,  at  that 
instant,  closed  sharply  and  suddenly  at  the 
farther  end  of  the  library.  It  was  a  very  long, 
narrow  room,  corresponding  exactly  in  shape 
and  length  to  the  matted  gallery  above,  and 
lined  with  books  from  end  to  end.  I  looked, 
naturally,  for  the  door  that  I  had  heard;  but 
there  was  no  second  door  visible.  Windows 
there  were  all  along  one  side,  like  the  windows 


in  the  picture  gallery ;  but  not  one  that  opened 
to  the  ground,  and  could  therefore  be  used  as  a 
means  of  entrance  or  exit.  And  yet  I  was  con- 
fident that  my  ears  had  not  deceived  mo.  I 
heard  the  creak  of  the  hinge  and  the  click  of  the 
lock  as  distinctly  as  I  now  heard  Hugh  walk  up 
to  my  side,  and  say  : 

"  A  goodly  show  of  literature,  is  it  not, 
petite  r' 

"  Goodly,  indeed.  It  makes  me  feel  like  a 
traveler  in  sight  of  a  strange  country." 

"  Or  a  discoverer  about  to  journey  round  the 
great  world  of  books,  in  search  of  unknown 
continents.  Ah,  wife,  what  exploring  voyages 
we  will  make  together  —  what  strange  specimens 
of  '  barbaric  gold  and  pearl,'  scraps  of  crabbed 
verse,  quaint  rhyme,  and  flowery  rhetoric,  we 
will  bring  back,  in  testimony  of  our  wander- 
ings !" 

"  Is  there  no  other  entrance  to  this  library  ?" 
I  asked,  suddenly. 

"  My  child,  what  an  absurd  question  !  Don't 
your  own  eyes  answer  you  ?     Why  do  you  ask  ?" 

"Because  I  am  confident  I  heard  a  door 
closed  as  I  came  in." 

"  In  one  of  the  upper  rooms,  no  doubt,"  said 
my  husband,  turning  abruptly  aside  and  search- 
ing along  the  nearest  shelves.  "  Mrs.  Fairhead, 
do  you  know  where  that  last  lot  of  foreign 
books  has  been  placed  ?" 

"  The  large  case,  sir,  that  you  sent  from  Ger- 
many ?" 

"  Yes.  I  desired  they  should  be  bound 
before  they  were  placed  upon  the  shelves." 

"I  believe  they  are  between  two  of  the  win- 
dows, sir,  lower  down,"  replied  Mrs.  Fairhead, 
"  but  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  which.  By  refer- 
ring to  the  catalogue " 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course,"  interrupted  Hugh; 
"  but  I  am  sure  to  cume  to  them  presently.  See, 
Barbara,  here  is  the  1623  Shakspeare  —  a 
volume  which  dignifies  a  library  like  a  patent  of 
nobility." 

"  A  grand  folio,  truly  ;  and,  I  suppose,  very 
valuable  ?" 

"I  gave  three  hundred  pounds  for  it,  and  * 
never  spent  my  money  with  more  hearty  satis- 
faction. Faulty  as  the  text  is,  if  you  once  begin 
to  read  Shakspeare  out  of  these  pages,  you  will 
never  tolerate  him  in  any  other  edition.  You 
can  not  think  what  a  flavor  of  antiquity  this  old 
type  gives  to  Macbeth  and  King  Lear." 

"  But  —  but,  Hugh " 

"  Yes,  my  darling  ?"  . 

"I  know  you  will  think  me  very  foolish ;  but 
I  do  assure  you  that  sound  was  too  distinct  to 
be  in  any  upper  floor.  It  came,  apparently, 
from  the  farther  end  of  this  very  room,  and " 

"  And  was,  no  doubt,  the  work  of  that  ghost 
which  you  fancied  you  saw  on  the  stairs  last 
night !  What  say  you  to  this,  Mrs.  Fairhead  ? 
Your  mistress  would  have  me  believe  the  old 
place  is  haunted !" 

Mrs.  Fairhead  smiled  respectful  incredulity. 

"  I  have  lived  in  it  all  my  life,  sir,"  said  she, 
"  and  this  is  the  first  time  I  ever  heard  of  such 
a  thing." 

"  Fancied  she  saw  a  ghost  last  night  on  the 
great  staircase,"  continued  Hugh,  speaking 
rapidly,  "  and  declares  she  heard  a  supernatural 
door  closed  in  this  very  room,  while  you  and  I 
were  examining  that  lock  a  moment  ago." 


BARBARA'S   HISTORY. 


127 


But  for  the  impossibility  of  such  a  thing,  I 
could  have  believed  that  I  detected  a  glance  of 
intelligence  between  Mrs.  Fairhead  and  her 
master.  Anyhow,  the  smile  vanished  from  the 
housekeeper's  lips,  and  the  color  mounted  to 
her  face. 

"I  —  I  am  sure,"   stammered  she,  "if — if 

Madam " 

"  Mr.  Farquhar  only  jests,"  I  said,  impatiently. 
"I  have  as  little  faith  in  ghosts,  Mrs.  Fairhead, 
as  either  himself  or  you ;  but  I  do  believe  that 
these  old  mansions  have  often  secret  doors  and 
hiding  places,  the  very  existence  of  which  is 
forgotten.  Such  a  door  there  might  have  been 
in  this  room — nay,  may  be,  and  yet  unknown  to 
you.  So  simple  a  thing  as  the  trick  of  a  sliding 
panel  might  be  accidentally  discovered,  any  day, 
by  a  servant;  and  the  sound  I  heard ^ but, 
there,  it  is  of  no  consequence.  You  know  of  no 
door,  and  perhaps  there  is  none.  Most  likely, 
I  was  mistaken." 

"  Most  likely  and  most  certainly,  Barbara," 
said  Hugh,  shrugging  his  shoulders.  "  Where 
every  shelf  is.  full,  as  you  see  here,  the  best  con- 
trived sliding  panel  that  ever  medieval  builder 
planned,  would  be  of  little  service.  And  now 
let  us  have  done  with  ghosts.  Shall  I  put  back 
the  Shakspeare?" 

"  No,  I  should  like  to  look  through  it  for  a 
few  moments." 

"Then  I  will  place  it  on  this  table  for  you, 
while  I  find  the  manuscript  Horace." 

He  placed  it  on  the  table — one  of  two,  carved 
in  oak  and  covered  with  green  morocco,  which 
stood  at  equal  distances  down  the  middle  of  the 
room  —  and  I  began  turning  over  the  yellow 
leaves  with  that  reverent  delight  which  is  only 
known  to  the  real  book  lover.  As  I  did  so, 
dwelling  on  the  fantastic  head  and  tail  pieces, 
and  spelling  over  the  quaint  address  supposed 
ta  have  been  written  by  Ben  Jonson,  I  saw  with 
dismay  that  my  finger  left  an  ink  mark  on  the 
page. 

I  looked  at  my  hand,  and  found  the  stain  yet 
damp  upon  it.  How  could  this  be  ?  I  had  used 
no  writing  materials  ;  written  nothing  ;  touched 
nothing  on  which  there  was  writing  this  day! 
I  anxiously  closed  the  precious  folio,  and  ex- 
amined the  cover ;  but  the  glossy  old  brown 
calf  was  dry  and  stainless.  Pipzzled,  but  re- 
lieved, I  drew  a  chair  to  the  table,  and  reopened 
the  volume.  Suddenly,  I  felt  the  blood  rush 
to  my  face,  like  a  fiery  tide. 

I  saw  a  large  ink-drop  on  the  green  morocco, 
close  against  my  arm. 

My  first  impulse  was  to  utter  an  exclamation ; 
my  second  to  suppress  it,  and  try  whether  the 
drop  was  really  fresh,  or  whether  the  gloss  had 
only  dried  upon  it.  I  touched  it,  and  the  stain 
came  off  upon  my  finger,  leaving  a  little  half- 
dried  circle  outlined  on  the  table.  What 
mystery  was  this  ?  There  was  an  inkstand,  it  is 
true,  upon  each  table ;  but  what  of  that  ?  The 
door  was  locked  before  we  came  in.  There  was 
no  second  door,  and  the  room  was  empty. 
Empty  ?  Was  it  empty  ?  Was  there  no  second 
door?  Was  Mrs.  Fairhead  absolutely  certain 
that  there  was  no  second  door  ?  Was  Hugh — 
No,  no  !  if  mystery  there  was,  he  had  no  share 
in  it.  He  was  deceived  as  well  as  I ;  and  Mrs. 
Fairhead  —  I  mistrusted  Mrs.  Fairhead.  I  re- 
membered her  embarrassment.     I  trembled.  I 


knew  not  why,  and  bending  low  above  the  book, 
leaned  my  head  upon  my  hand,  and  concealed 
my  agitation  as  well  as  I  could. 

"  See  here,  Barbarina,"  said  my  husband, 
cheerily,  coming  up  from  the  lower  end  of  the 
library  with  an  armful  of  dusty  volumes,  "  here 
are  treasures  for  your  delectation  —  the  early 
Chaucer ;  a  queer  old  Tasso,  clasped  and  bound 
in  vellum  ;  a  very  curious  illuminated  Greek 
testament  of — but  what  is  the  matter?  You 
look  pale !" 

"I  do  not  feel  very  well,  Hugh,"  I  replied. 
"A  slight  faintness  came   over  me  just  now, 

and " 

"  This  room  is  too  cold  for  you,  my  child," 
he  interrupted,  anxiously.  "  I  ought  to  have 
remembered  that  we  are  in  the  first  days  of 
October,  and  have  ordered  the  stove  to  be  light- 
ed before  you  came  into  this  great  desolate 
library.  Let  us  go  up-stairs  at  once.  I  can 
bring  the  Shakspeare,  if  you  wish  it ;  and  send 
one  of  the  servants  for  these  other  books  Do 
you  still  feel  faint  ?" 

"  Not  nearly  so  faint  as  I  did.  A  walk,  I 
think,  would  do  me  good ;  and  it  is  quite  time 
that  I  went  over  to  Stoneycroft,  if  I  would  not 
make  my  visit  too  brief." 

"I  fear  those  four  days  spent  at  Mrs.  Sandy- 
shaft's  bedside  have  done  you  harm,  my  wifie," 
said  Hugh,  encircling  my  waist  with  his  strong 
arm,  and  leading  me  tenderly  away. 
"  Oh,  it  is  not  that,  Hugh  !" 
"  Nay,  I  am  not  so  sure.  I  shall  not  let  you 
stay  long  with  her  to-day.  Remember,  my  little 
one,  you  have  but  lately  recovered  from  illness 
yourself,  and  are  too  precious  a  jewel  to  be  im- 
periled, though  all  the  aunts  in  creation  clam- 
ored for  your  company." 

"  My  poor  aunt,  Hugh,  I  tell  you  again,  has 
nothing  to  do  with  it,"  I  repeated,  when  we 
had  reached  our  quiet  up-stairs  room,  and  were 
alone  again. 

"  What  was  it  then  ?" 

"  If  I  tell  you,  you  will  laugh  at  me." 

"  By  Jove,  now,  if  it's  any  thing  more  about 

your  imaginary  ghost " 

I  laid  my  hand  upon  his  mouth. 
"  It's  about  no  ghosts,"  I  said;  "but  an  ink- 
drop." 

"The  ghost  of  an  ink-drop  ?"  laughed  Hugh. 
"  No — a  very  material  ink-drop,  I  am  sorry 
to  say,"  replied  I ;    "  for  it  has  left  a  stain  on 
the  title-page  of  your  1623  Shakspeare." 
"  Confound  it !     How  did  that  happen  ?" 
"  Sit  down  quietly,  and  I  will  tell  you  ;   but 
first  of  all,  understand  that  although  I  was  the 
unlucky  transferrer  of  the  stain,  it  was  through 
no   fault  of  mine.     I  would  not  have   injured 
your  precious  folio,  husband,  for  the  world." 

And  with  this  I  told  my  story  with  all  my 
doubts,  suspicions,  and  conclusions.  When  I 
had  done,  he  laughed,  patted  me  on  the  cheek, 
and  told  me  I  was  a  goose  for  my  pains. 

"  But  some  one  must  have  been  in  the  room, 
Hugh,"  I  persisted ;  "  or  how  could  the  ink- 
drop  have  fallen  on  the  table  ?" 

"  And  some  one  had  been  in  the  room,  no 
doubt — one  of  the  housemaids,  most  probably. 
The  place  was  dusted  this  morning,  of  course, 
before  we  went  into  it." 

"  But  it  was  still  wet,  and " 

"  A  large  drop,  such  as  you  describe,  carina^ 


128 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


would  take  some  time  to  dry  in  a  room  without 
a  fire,  this  cool  October  morning." 

*'  Then  housemaids  don't  go  into  libraries  to 
write." 

"  By  no  means  certain,  if  the  housemaid  has 
a  sweetheart ;  but  it  does  not  follow  that  she 
was  writing.  She  may  have  set  the  inkstand 
roughly  down,  or  have  whisked  her  duster  into 
it,  or  have  spilled  the  ink  in  half  a  dozen  ways, 
without  using  a  pen  for  the  purpose." 

"And  as  for  that  sound  that  I  heard,  Hugh, 
I  am  as  certain  that  it  was  not  on  an  upper 
floor " 

"  As  I  am,  that  it  was  the  work  of  your  own 
fancy  !"  interrupted  he,  "  Pshaw,  my  darling, 
it  needs  no  sliding  panels,  no  ghosts,  no  diabol- 
ical machinery  whatever  to  account  for  your 
marvelous  ink-drop  !  As  for  poor,  good,  simple 
Mrs.  Fairhead,  I  wish  you  joy  of  her,  if  she  is  to 
be  your  arch-conspirator  !  Be  advised  by  me, 
you  nervous  unreasoning  child,  and  banish  all 
this  nonsense  from  your  mind.  I  declare,  1 
thought  you  had  more  sense,  and  less  German 
romance,  in  your  dear  little  head !" 

Silenced,  but  only  half  convinced,  I  gave  up 
the  point,  and  said  no  more  about  it. 

"You  do  love  your  little  Barbarina,  even 
though  you  think  her  a  goose,  don't  you,  Hugh?" 
I  said,  presently. 

"  Love  you,  my  darling  !  It  is  all  I  live  to 
do." 

"  I  beheve  it," 

He  was  kneeling  beside  my  chair ;  and  I  took 
his  great  shaggy  head  in  my  two  han4s,  and 
kissed  him  on  the  forehead. 

"Now  may  I  go  and  shoot  some  pheasants?" 
asked  he,  with  mock  humility, 

"  Yes  ;  and  be  sure  you  come  and  fetch  me 
home  at  five  o'clock,  sir." 

"  Thy  servant  hears ;  and  to  hear  is  to  obey." 

I  watched  him  go  forth  with  his  gun  and  his 
dogs,  active  and  athletic  as  a  prairie  hunter. 
As  he  crossed  the  courtyard,  he  turned  and 
waved  his  hat  to  me.  That  gesture,  and  the 
smile  by  which  it  was  accompanied,  staid  by 
me  all  the  day  and  made  me  happy.  I  knew 
that  he  loved  me ;  and  I  knew  that  I  loved 
him,  and  trusted  him,  perfectly. 


.     CHAPTER  XL VI. 

OUR   LIFE   AT   BROOMHILL. 

Hugh's  prophecy  came  but  too  true.  Our 
arrival  at  Broomhill  was  no  sooner  known 
through  the  county,  than  we  were  overwhelmed 
with  visitors.  They  came  day  after  day,  and 
week  after  week,  till  I  began  to  think  we  should 
never  be  at  peace  again.  The  gravel  in  the 
avenue  was  cut  into  furrows  by  their  carriage- 
wheels  ;  and  had  to  be  rolled  continually.  The 
card-baskets  filled  and  overflowed,  like  perpetual 
fountains.  Every  evening  I  added  fresh  names 
to  the  list  of  visits  which  must  be  returned — 
some  day.  I  need  hardly  say  that  this  influx  of 
strangers  wearied  and  annoyed  me  beyond 
description.  I  knew  that  curiosity  alone  brought 
nine  tenths  of  them  to  my  door,  and  felt  that  I 
was  the  object  of  their  criticism  from  the  mo- 
ment- they  passed  its  threshold  till  they  went 
away  again.     That  I  was  Mrs.  Sandyshaft's  niece ; 


that  my  father  was  descended  from  the  Marl- 
borough family  ;  that  my  sister  Hilda  was  mar- 
ried to  the  Count  de  Chaumont ;  that  I  had 
been  educated  in  Germany;  and  that  we  had 
been  married  and  living  abroad  for  more  than  a 
whole  year,  were  facts  that  seemed  to  have 
propagated  themselves  in  the  air,  and  spread, 
heaven  only  knew  how !  in  all  directions. 
Every  body  seemed  to  know  every  thing  about 
me  ;  and  one  of  the  county  papers  even  went  so 
far  as  to  hint  at  "  a  romantic  attachment  of  long 
standing ;"  though  that  could  have  been  nothing^ 
but  conjecture.  In  the  midst  of  all  this  visiting, 
I  confess  that  I  did  not  regret  the  absence  of 
Lady  Flora  Bayham,  now  married,  and  living  in 
a  distant  county.  That  childish  wound  of 
jealousy  had  left  its  scar,  and  though  long  since 
healed  over,  was  not  forgotten. 

In  the  mean  time  my  husband  lavished  gifts 
upon  me  ;  and,  sober  and  simple  as  were  my 
tastes,  insisted,  though  with  a  more  substantial 
result  than  did  Petruchio,  on  providing  me — 

"  With  silken  coats,  and  caps  and  golden  rings, 
With  ruffs,  and  cuffs,  and  farthingales,  and  things." 

I  had  cashmeres  brought  by  himself  from  the 
East,  that  a  queen  might  envy ;  furs  fit  for  a 
Russian  princess  ;  gold  and  silver  filigrees  from 
Genoa  ;  coral  ornaments  from  Naples  ;  mosaics 
from  Rome  and  Florence  ;  silks  and  velvets  so 
rich  that  I  felt  afraid  to  wear  them,  and  which 
a  stately  London  court-dressmaker  came  all  the 
way  to  Broomhill  to  fit  and  adapt  to  my  little 
person.  Then  I  had  a  riding  horse  ;  and  a  new 
habit ;  and  a  dainty  little  whip  set  with  tur- 
quoises. And,  above  all,  there  came  one  day  for 
my  approval  the  most  exquisite  lounge-chaise  that 
Messrs,  Turrill  and  Co,  ever  turned  out  from 
their  workshops — a  graceful  shell-shaped  thing, 
so  light  that  it  seemed  to  be  hung  upon  nothing 
— and  a  pair  of  the  shaggiest,  tiniest,  friskiest 
Shetland  ponies  that  ever  scampered  in  harness ! 
This  last  gift  delighted  me  more  than  all  the  rest, 
and  went  far  to  reconcile  me  to  the  stern  duty 
of  returning  my  neighbors'  visits. 

In  spite,  however,  of  all  this  luxury,  and  all 
these  indulgences,  my  happiest  hours  were  those 
which  I  spent  in  my  painting-room,  or  alone  with 
Hugh  after  dinner  in  our  favorite  turret-chamber. 
The  painting-room  had  been  a  spare  bedroom 
in  the  wing  traditionally  appropriated  to  visitors, 
and  I  chose  it  for  my  studio  for  ti^o  reasons  ; 
one  of  which  was  that  it  commanded  a  fine  view 
and  an  excellent  north  light,  and  the  other  that 
it  was  only  separated  by  a  landing  from  that 
very  turret  chamber,  the  threshold  of  which  no 
strange  foot  e\'er  profaned,  I  had  but  little 
time  ;  for  the  days  grew  short,  and  my  interrup- 
tions were  frequent ;  but  it  was  very  pleasant 
only  to  have  a  picture  on  the  easel  and  a  task  in 
hand ;  and  I  contrived  almost  daily  to  secure 
the  first  two  hours  after  breakfast. 

My  aunt,  meanwhile,  recovered  rapidly ;  and, 
save  such  inevitable  alteration  as  seven  years 
must  work,  looked  much  the  same  as  ever.  Her 
step  perhaps  was  a  shade  less  firm,  her  carriage 
a  trifle  less  erect,  her  voice  a  little  less  resonant, 
than  when  I  first  came  to  live  with  her  at 
Stoneycroft  Hall ;  but  her  eye  was  as  vigilant, 
and  her  tongue  as  caustic,  as  of  old.  As  for* 
her  temper,  it  had  become  far  more  sour  and 
overbearing  than  I  had  ever  known  it  before. 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


129 


"While  she  was  yet  very  Ul  I  began  to  suspect 

this;  and  as  she  got  well,  I  saw  it  more  and 
more  plainly. 

"  I  know  I  am  cross,  Bab,"  she  used  to  say, 
"  I  know  I  am  cross,  and  very  disagreeable ;  but 
I  can't  help  it.  It's  my  infirmity.  If  you  had 
never  left  me,  I  shouldn't  have  been  half  so  bad. 
I  had  got  used  to  you;  and  the  loss  of  you 
soured  me — I  know  it  did ;  and  now  it's  too  late 
to  be  helped.  I  have  lived  too  much  alone 
these  last  years.  It  isn't  in  human  nature  to 
live  alone,  and  improve.  You  must  take  me  as 
you  find  me,  and  make  the  best  of  me." 

I  did  take  her  as  I  found  her,  and  I  made  the 
best  of  her  ;  but,  for  all  that,  things  would  not 
go  quite  easily  and  cordially  between  us.  Her 
temper  was  an  infirmity ;  and  I  made  every 
allowance  for  it.  The  loss  of  me  had  soured  her 
— I  did  not  doubt  it  for  an  instant.  But  that 
was  not  all.  The  fact  was  that  she  coul^never 
forgive  me  for  marrying  Hugh,  nor  Hugh  for 
asking  me.  It  had  frustrated  all  her  favorite 
plans;  and  time,  instead  of  reconciling  her  to 
the  disappointment,  seemed  only  to  aggravate 
her  sense  of  the  injury  and  injustice  which  she 
conceived  had  been  dealt  out  to  herself.  Thus 
it  came  to  pass  that  she  waS  always  saying  some 
bitter  thing  which  I  could  not  hear  without  re- 
monstrance, and  which  she  was  angry  with  me 
for  feeling.  To  my  husband  she  was  so  rude, 
that,  with  all  his  forbearance,  he  found  it  diffi- 
cult to  steer  clear  of  open  disagreement  with 
her ;  and  so  staid  away  more  and  more,  till  at 
last  his  visits  might  almost  be  said  to  have  en- 
tirely ceased. 

These  things  were  to  me,  of  necessity,  the 
sources  of  profound  and  frequent  trouble.  The 
two  whom  I  loved  best  in  all  the  world  were 
gradually  growing  to  dislike  each  other  more 
and  more  ;  and  nothing  that  I  could  do  would 
avert  the  catastrophe.  The  breach  widened 
daily  before  my  eyes.  I  tried  to  patch  it  over 
continually  ;  but  in  vain.  In  the  attempt  to 
justify  Hugh  to  my  aunt,  or  excuse  my  aunt  to 
Hugh,  I  soon  found  that  I  did  more  harm  than 
good  ;  and  so  gave  it  up  after  a  while,  and  sadly 
suffered  matters  to  take  their  course. 

The  month  of  October,  and  the  greater  part 
of  November,  passed  by  thus,  in  receiving 
and  paying  visits,  driving,  riding,  wearing  fine 
clothes,  and  staving  off  that  quarrel  between  my 
aunt  and  Hugh  which  seemed  to  be  inevitable 
at  some  time  or  other.  Active  and  restless  by 
nature,  my  husband  had  been  more  than  ever 
unsettled  since  our  return  to  Broomhill,  anji 
now  lived  almost  entirely  in  the  open  air.  When 
not  riding  or  driving  with  me,  he  was  out  shoot- 
ing in  his  preserves.  He  rode  to  every  meet, 
however  distant ;  although  in  Rome  he  had 
never  expressed  a  wish  to  follow  the  subscrip- 
tion pack.  It  appeared,  indeed,  as  if  he  had 
lost  his  taste  for  all  the  quiet  pleasures  of  indoor 
life  ;  as  if  he  never  could  never  be  happy  unless 
out  and  stirring ;  as  if,  alas  !  he  took  so  little 
pleasure  in  his  ancestral  home  that  it  was  a  re- 
lief to  him  to  get  beyond  its  precincts. 

There  were  times  when  1  looked  back  with  lov- 
ing regret  to  our  delicious  life  in  Italy — when, 
but  for  the  confident  hope  that  better  times 
must  come,  I  should  almost  have  wished  that  I 
had  never  brought  him  back  to  Broomhill. 
In  the  mean  time  Goody — dear,  faithful  Goody 
I 


— came  down  and  made  her  home  in  a  little 
gothic  cottage  that  had  once  been  a  game- 
keeper's lodge,  situated  on  a  pleasant  green 
knoll,  just  where  the  woods  bordered  on  the 
western  boundary  of  the  park.  To  furnish  this 
little  maisonette  for  her,  to  stock  her  presses 
with  linen,  her  cupboards  with  crockery,  and 
her  poultry-yard  with  cocks  and  hens,  afforded 
me  many  hours  of  unmixed  pleasure.  Possessed 
of  all  these  luxuries,  she  thought  herself  a  rich 
woman ;  and  though  it  was  almost  winter  when 
she  came,  looked  upon  Broomhill  as  little  short 
of  an  Eden  upon  earth. 


CHAPTER  XLVn. 

THE     FAMILY     DIAMONDS. 

"Barbarina  mia,"  said  Hugh,  as  we  were 
sitting  together  one  evening  after  dinner^  "I 
forgot  to  tell  you  that  the  Bayhams  are  going  to 
give  a  great  ball," 
"Who  told  you  so?" 

"  Lord  Bayham,  himself;  I  met  him  as  I  was 
coming  home." 

"  Oh,  dear  me !  shall  we  be  obliged  to  go?" 
"  Most  undoubtedly ;  since  it  is  to  be  given 
chiefly  in  honor  of  ourselves." 

"  I  am  so  tired  of  society,"  said,  I,  with  a 
sigh. 

"  I  am  not  'tired'  of  it — I  loathe  it,"  grum- 
bled Hugh,  dealing  a  savage  kick  at  the  log  upon 
the  fire,  and  sending  a  shower  of  sparks,  like  a 
miniature  firework,  careering  up  the  chimney. 

"If  we  could  only  live  here,  Hugh,  as  we 
lived  abroad !" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  gloomily. 
"  We  might  if  we  liked,  you  know,"  I  pursu- 
ed, laying  my  hand  coaxingly  upon  his.  "  We 
were  bound  to  return  the  people's  calls,  and  we 
have  done  so  ;  but  we  are  not  bound  to  accept 
their  invitations,  or  cultivate  their  acquaintance, 
unless  we  please." 

"  Bah  !  what  else  can  we  do  ?  What  else  is 
there  for  us  to  do  in  a  place  like  this  ?'' 

*'  More  than  life  itself  would  be  long  enough 
to  do  satisfactorily,  depend  on  it.  In  the  first 
place,  you  have  books ;  in  the  second,  you  have 

art " 

"My  dear  girl,"  said  he,  impatiently,  "books 
and  pictures  are  all  very  well  in  their  way ;  but 
to  an  English  country  life  they  can  add  very 
little  real  enjoyment." 

"You  desired  no  other  pleasures  when  we 
were  in  Italy." 

"  In  Italy  the  case  was  different.  In  Rome 
we  had  all  the  art  of  the  world.  At  Albano  we 
had  natural  scenery.  In  both  we  had  the  climate 
of  Paradise," 

«  But " 

"  But,  my  darling,  this  is  a  subject  which  we 
see  so  differently,  that  it  is  useless  to  argue 
upon  it.  And  now  about  this  ball  at  Ashley 
Park.  It  is  to  take  place  in  about  a  month 
from  the  present  time — that  is  to  say,  a  week 
before  Christmas ;  and  as  it  will  be  her  first  ap- 
pearance in  a  large  assembly,  I  am  anxious  that 
my  little  wife  should  make  a  good  appearance." 
'"  I  want  no  more  new  dresses,  Hugh,"  I  ex- 
claimed, "  I  have  more  now  than  I  shall  ever 
wear." 


130 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


"  What  an  amazing  Barbarina  it  is !"  laughed 
he,  unlocking  a  quaint  old  carved  bureau  in  a 
recess  beside  the  fireplace,  and  taking  thence  a 
large  red  morocco  case.  "  The  lady  of  Bur- 
leigh herself  could  scarcely  have  regarded  the 
haberdasher  and  dress-maker  with  a  more  pious 
horror.  Mais,  rassure-toi,  cherie.  It  was  not  of 
your  dress  that  I  was  thinking,  but  of  these." 

He  touched  the  spring,  and  disclosed  what 
looked  like  a  constellation  of  diamonds. 

"  Oh,  husband,  how  beautiful !" 

"They  were  my  mother's,  and  my  father's 
mother's,"  said  Hugh,  somewhat  sadly;  "and 
some  of  the  stones,  I  believe,  have  been  in  the 
fiimily  even  longer.  They  are  yours  now,  my 
darling," 

"  They  are  magnificent :  but — ^but  fancy  me 
in  all  these  diamonds  !" 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  should  feel  ashamed — my  grandeur  would 
overwhelm  me.  How  well  Hilda  would  become 
them !" 

"  Not  better  than  thyself,  carissima.  But  they 
are  old-fashioned,  and  must  be  reset  before  my 
little  woman  wears  them." 

"  Indeed,  no !  they  will  do  beautifully  as  they 
are." 

"Indeed,  yes.  Look  at  this  aigrette.  How 
would  you  like  to  go  to  Lord  Bay  ham's  ball  with 
an  aigrette  perched  upon  your  head,  like  an  or- 
nament on  a  twelfth  cake  ?  Then  here  are  ear- 
rings. You  have  never  worn  earrings  in  your 
life ;  and  do  you  think  I  could  endure  to  see  my 
wifie's  ears  barbarously  stilettoed,  as  if  she  were 
a  Choctaw  squaw?  No,  no — the  aigrette  and 
earrings  will  make  a  charming  little  tiara  for 
her  brow ;  and  the  necklace  shall  assume  a  more 
modern  pattern;  and  the  brooch — what  shall 
we  do  with  the  brooch?  Have  it  reset  as  a 
brooch,  or  turn  it  into  a  bracelet  ?" 

"  Turn  it  into  a  bracelet,  by  all  means,  with  a 
miniature  of  yourself  in  the  midst." 

'■'■  Bon.  I  should  not  have  trusted  any  one 
but  myself  to  take  the  jewels  up  to  town,  and  I 
can  see  about  the  miniature  at  the  same  time. 
I  think  I  will  go  to-morrow  by  the,  early  train," 

"  And  come  back  by  the  last  ?" 

"  Humph  !  I  don't  know  how  to  promise  that, 
Barbarina.  I  shall  have  to  choose  the  patterns 
for  the  diamonds ;  to  find  an  artist,  to  give  my 
artist  a  sitting,  if  he  will  take  me  on  so  short  a 

notice  ;  to well,  I  will  do  my  best ;  and  if 

I  find  I  can  not  catch  the  train,  I  will  tele- 
graph." 

"  You  will  not  telegraph,"  said  I.  "You  will 
come.  Remember  the  motto  of  Henri  Quatre : 
'  cl  coeur  vaillant,  rien  d'' impossible  P  " 

I  drove  him  over  to  the  station  the  next 
morning  by  starlight,  and  saw  him  vanish  like 
Aubrey's  ghost,  to  the  "  melodious  twang  "  of 
the  railway  whistle.  As  I  came  back,  the  day 
was  superb.  The  frosty  road  rang  beneath  the 
hoofs  of  my  Shetlanders.  The  blue  sky,  un- 
flecked  by  even  a  vapor,  seemed  immeasurably 
high  and  transparent.  There  was  a  magical 
sharpness  in  the  tracery  of  every  bare  bough 
that  rose  into  the  sunlight ;  and  the  yellow  leaves 
that  still  masked  the  nakedness  of  the  wood- 
lands, mocked  the  wintry  landscape  with  autum- 
nal hues.  But  for  those  yellow  leaves,  it  might 
have  been  a  morning  of  early  spring-time. 

Some  such  thought  as  this  it  was,  perhaps, 


that  led  me  back,  during  that  homeward  drive 
to  old  memories  of  the  happy  spring-tide  that  I 
spent  here  long  ago.  I  thought  of  that  last 
morning  when  I  met  Hugh  in  the  woods ;  and  re- 
membered, almost  with  a  sense  of  self-reproach, 
that  I  had  not  once  revisited  the  place  since  my 
return.  Then  I  looked  at  the  silver  ring,  now 
transferred  to  my  watch-chain ;  and  wondered 
if  the  marks  of  the  shot  were  yet  visible  on  the 
beech-bark ;  and  if  the  old  mossy  stump  on  which 
I  was  sitting  when  they  whistled  past,  had  been 
spared  all  this  time  by  the  woodcutters.  Finally, 
when,  at  about  the  distance  of  a  mile  and  a  half 
from  Broomhill,  I  met  one  of  the  grooms  and 
two  or  three  of  the  dogs,  I  alighted,  desired  the 
man  to  drive  the  ponies  home,  and  announced 
my  intention  of  walking  round  by  the  woods. 

"  If  you  please,  'm,"  said  he,  touching  hia 
cap,  "  I  think  Nap  would  like  to  go  with  you." 

"  Then  he  shall  certainly  do  so,  Joseph. 
Come,  Nap  !     Come  on,  boy  !" 

And  with  this  I  struck  down  a  side  path,  lead- 
ing to  the  woods,  with  the  great  dog  barking 
and  galloping  round  me.  The  groom,  the  point- 
ers, and  the  Shetlanders  pursued  their  way  by 
the  high  road. 

Nap  and  I  were  great  friends.  He  was  a 
magnificent  beast,  of  pure  St.  Bernard  breed ; 
powerful  and  tawny  as  a  young  lion,  with  a  deep 
furrow  on  his  brow,  and  a  voice  that  sounded 
as  if  it  came  from  an  organ-pipe.  His  name 
was  Napoleon,  called  Nap  for  shortness;  and 
his  pedigree  was  as  illustrious  as  his  name.  He 
was,  in  fact,  the  last  lineal  descendant  of  an  an- 
cestor whose  owner  acted  as  guide  to  the  First 
Consul  in  the  celebrated  passage  of  1800 ;  and 
who  himself  accompanied  his  master  and  the 
army  through  all  the  difficulties  and  dangers  of 
the  route.  I  used  sometimes  to  think  that  Nap 
was  conscious  of  his  own  nobility,  and- becom- 
ingly proud  of  his  genealogical  advantages.  He 
accepted  caresses  as  if  they  were  his  due ;  was 
dignified  in  his  intercourse  with  small  dogs; 
and  had  at  all  times  such  an  air  of  easy  grandeur 
that  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  treat  him 
with  disrespect. 

His  first  greeting  over,  and  his  satisfaction 
sufficiently  expressed.  Nap  trotted  calmly  for- 
ward, some  three  or  four  yards  in  advance,  with 
now  and  then  a  pause  and  a  glance  back.  Thus 
we  crossed  the  upland  fallows,  and  skirted  part 
of  the  Stoneycrofc  land,  and  entered  the  woods 
by  a  little  rustic  stile,  the  top-rail  of  which  was 
carved  all  over  with  the  initials  of  by-gone 
loiterers. 

It  was  by  this  time  nearly  mid-day,  and  the 
wintry  wood,  carpeted  with  russet  leaves,  and 
interspersed  here  and  there  with  ilex,  holly  and 
fir-trees,  glowed  in  Ihe  sunshine  with  a  beauty 
peculiar  to  the  season.  Unexcluded  by  foliage, 
the  broad  full  light  poured  in  upon  every  bank 
and  hollow,  and  checkered  the  ground  with 
shadows  of  interlacing  boughs.  There  was 
scarcely  a  breath  of  air,  and  the  calm  of  the 
place  was  perfect.  The  dry  leaves  crackled 
underfoot.  Now  and  then,  a  bird  twittered,  or 
a  pheasant  rose,  whirring,  from  the  brushwood. 
Now  and  then,  a  leaf  fluttered  down  through  the 
sunshine.  As  I  went  forward,  half  uncertain  of 
the  way,  and  looking  out  on  all  sides  for  any 
indication  of  the  rising  ground  which  had  been 
the  scene    of  my  childish  romance,   I   could 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


131 


not  help  thinking  of  this  passage  in  "Christ- 
abei  :"— 

"  There  was  not  wind  enough  to  twirl 
The  one  red  leaf,  the  last  of  its  clan, 
That  dances  as  often  as  dance  it  can, 
Hanging  so  light,  and  hanging  so  high, 
On  the  topmost  twig  that  loolis  up  at  the  sky.'* 

Suddenly,  while  I  was  repeating  the  last  two 
lines  dreamily  over  and  over,  the  St.  Bernard 
uttered  a  short  joyous  bark,  bounded  from  my 
side,  dashed  away  across  a  little  space  of  open 
glade  where  several  fallen  trunks  showed  that  the 
woodmen  had  been  lately  at  work,  and  precipi- 
tated himself  in  a  rapture  of  recognition  upon 
the  knees  of  a  lady  whom,  but  for  this  incident, 
I  believe  I  should  have  passed  without  seeing. 
She  was  dressed  all  in  black,  and  half  hidden  by 
the  pile  of  log-wood  on  which  she  was  sitting, 
I  was  just  close  enough  to  see  her  thro^  her 
arms  passionately  round  the  dog's  neck,  and  kiss 
•  him  on  the  furrowed  forehead — ^glance  quickly 
round — snatch  up  a  book  from  the  grass  beside 
her — start  to  her  feet,  turning  upon  me  a  pale 
face  with  a  strange  flash  of  terror  and  dislike  on 
it — and  plunge  hastily  away  among  the  trees. 
The  dog  plunged  after  her.  Surprised  and  dis- 
turbed, I  stood  for  a  moment,  looking  after  them. 
Then,  while  I  could  yet  hear  him  crashing  through 
the  brushwood,  I  called  "Nap  !  Nap  !  Nap  !"  re- 
peatedly, but  in  vain.  Once,  after  an  interval 
of  several  minutes,  I  heard  him  give  a  faint,  far- 
away, uncertain  bark — then  all  was  still  again. 

Somewhat  unsettled  by  the  loss  of  my  four- 
footed  companion,  and  perplexed  by  the  strange 
manner  of  his  disappearance,  I  followed  the  open 
glade  till  I  came  to  a  game-keeper's  cottage,  and 
thence  inquired  my  way  home.  I  was  tired,  and 
it  was  useless  to  think  of  searching  the  woods 
to-day  for  a  spot  which  by  this  time,  no  doubt, 
had  lost  all  its  former  characteristics.  Besides, 
I  did  not  quite  like  wandering  alone,  without 
even  a  dog  to  bear  me  company.  So  I  went 
back,  by  the  nearest  path,  to  Broomhill,  intend- 
ing to  send  some  one  in  search  of  Nap  as  soon 
as  I  got  home  ;  and  feeling  something  like  an  un- 
easy doubt  as  to  whether  we  should  ever  see  him 
again. 

What,  then,  was  my  relief  when  the  first  ob- 
ject I  beheld  as  I  approached  the  house  on  the 
library-side,  was  Nap  himself,  lying  sphynx-like, 
with  his  nose  upon  his  paws,  in  the  midst  of  the 
sunny  graveled  space  where  the  fountain  was 
playing ! 

I  opened  the  little  iron  gate — the  same  through 
which  I  had  ventured,  a  breathless  trespasser, 
that  day  when  Hugh  surprised  me  at  the  window 
— and  went  up  to  him,  and  patted  him,  and  re- 
monstrated with  him  on  his  late  behavior.  But 
he  only  thumped  his  tail  upon  the  ground,  and 
blinked  at  me  lazily — and  it  was  of  no  use  to  ask 
him  where  he  had  been,  or  with  whom. 

Then  I  went  in,  sent  for  Mrs.  Fairhead,  de- 
scribed the  lady,  and  inquired  if  any  one  had 
seen  the  dog  come  home.  But  Mrs.  Fairhead 
could  tell  me  no  more  than  Nap  himself ;  so  I 
betook  myself  to  my  painting-room,  and  proceed- 
ed to  work  away  the  weary  hours  before  my 
husband's  return. 


CHAPTER  XLVin. 

IMPERIAL  TOKAY  IN  VENETIAN   GLASSES. 

"  To  have  my  way,  in  spite  of  your  tongue  and  reap 
son's  teeth,  tastes  better  than  Hungary  wine." 

Death's  Jest  Book. 

"  Put  the  painting  by  for  to-day,  Barbara," 
said  Hugh,  thrusting  his  head  just  inside  the 
door,  "  and  come  with  me." 
"  Where,  dear  ?" 

"  Into  the  next  room."  , 

"  What  for  ?" 

"  You  shall  know,  when  you  get  there." 
"Well — in  five  minutes." 
"  No,  carina — at  once." 
"  Tiresome  fellow  !     The  light  is  just  going, 
and  I  want  to  add  another  touch  or  two  to  this 
head,  before  leaving  ofif." 

"  Never  mind  the  head.    I  can  show  you  some- 
thing much  better  worth  looking  at." 
"  Your  own  perhaps  V 
"  May  be.     Chi  lo  sa  P 

"Your  portrait?"  I  exclaimed,  starting  up  at 
once.  "  I  am  sure  it  is  your  portrait  ?  Who 
has  brought  it  ?    When  did  it  come  ?" 

"  I  have  not  even  said  that  it  is  my  portrait," 
replied  he,  laughing,  and  leading  the  way.  At 
the  door  of  the  turret  chamber,  he  paused  and 
put  his  hands  over  my  eyes,  saying  that  I  must 
go  in,  blindfolded. 

"  And  now,  one — two — THREE,  and  the  cur- 
tain rises  on  the  Halls  of  Dazzling  Light,  in  the 
Refulgent  Abode  of  the  Fairy  Crystallina  !" 

He  withdrew  his  hands,  and  for  the  first  mo- 
ment I  was  really  dazzled ;  for  he  had  caused 
the  fading  daylight  to  be  shut  out,  and  two  enor- 
mous branch  candelabra  and  a  powerful  vesta 
lamp  to  be  lighted;  bo  that  the  little  room 
seemed  all  ablaze.  Then,  as  my  eyes  grew  ac- 
customed to  it,  I  saw  that  these  lights  were 
ranged  round  a  sort  of  fantastic  altar  draped 
with  a  rich  oriental  shawl  of  crimson  silk  and 
gold,  supporting  a  velvet  cushion  on  which 
were  arranged  a  glittering  tiara,  necklace,  and 
bracelet  of  diamonds. 

I  flew  to  the  bracelet,  and  burst  into  exclama- 
tions of  delight. 

"  Oh,  husband,  how  charming  !  What  an  ad- 
mirable likeness !     What  a  treasure  !" 

"  I  am  glad  the  portrait  pleases  you,  Barbara 
mia." 

"  It  enchants  me  !  You  never  gave  me  any 
thing  that  pleased  me  half  so  much." 

"  Come,  that's  well.     And  the  setting  ?" 

"  It  has  your  very  expression." 

"My  expression  is  brilliant,  I  confess,"  said 
Hugh  ;  "but  you  mustn't  be  too  flattering." 

"  I  could  declare  that  the  mouth  is  just  about 
to  say  '  Barbarina  !'  And  then  the  eyes,  looking 
up,  half  in  jest  and  half  in  earnest " 

"  Will  it  please  your  Majesty  to  turn  your 
own  eyes  in  this  direction,  and  tell  me  what  you 
think  of  the  rest  of  the  regalia  ?" 

"  I  think  it  exceedingly  beautiful — ^much  too 
beautiful  for  my  wearing.  I  shall  feel  like  King 
Cophetua's  bride,  or  Grisildis  with  the  '  croune 
on  hir  hed,'  when  I  wear  that  circlet  upon  mine." 

"  Never  mind  how  you  will  feel ;  I  want  to 
see  how  you  will  look.  Come,  let  me  crown  you." 

"Nay,  in  this  woolen  gown " 

"Oh,  the  woolen  gown  is  easily  disguised. 
See,  with  this  shawl  flung  over  it  —  and  fast- 
ened on  the  shoulder,  thus — and  the  sleeve 


132 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


rolled  up,  out  of  sight — and  the  bracelet  on  the 

pretty  white  arm — and  the  tiara " 

"  What  a  boy  you  are,  Hugh !" 
"  Stop,  here's  the  necklace  yet  to  come.     Per 
BaccOy  I  have  seen  many  a  genuine  queen  who 
looked  not  half  so  well  in  her  finery !" 

"  But  I  can  not  see  myself  in  this  mirrorless 
room  !" 

"Then  we  will  go  into  the  drawing-room, 
carina^  where  you  can  flourish  at  full  length  in 
three  or  four  mirrors  at  once."  ■ 

*'  How  absurd,  if  we  meet  any  of  the  servants 
on  the  stairs !" 

"Pshaw!  what  does  that  signify ?"  laughed 
Hugh,  ringing  the  bell.  "  We  will  make  a  state 
procession  of  it.  Tippoo  shall  precede  you  with 
the  branches,  and  I  will  bring  up  the  rear  with 
the  lamp.  Shall  we  send  for  Mrs.  Fairhead  to 
carry  your  train  ?" 

"  Mercy  on  us !  what  mummery  is  this  ?" 
cried  a  voice  at  the  door  ;  and  not  Tippoo,  but 
Mrs.  Sandyshaft  stood  before  us. 

We  both  started  at  the  sight  of  this  stern  ap- 
parition, and,  for  a  moment,  could  find  nothing 
to  say. 

"  You  must  be  mad,"  pursued  my  aunt,  still 
on  the  threshold ;  "  stark,  staring  mad,  both  of 
you !  It's  only  charity  to  suppose  it.  Pray, 
may  a  sane  person  inquire  what  it  is  you're 
after  ?" 

"  My  dear  aunt,"  I  stammered,  divesting  my- 
self of  the  shawl,  and  pulling  down  my  sleeves 
as  fast  as  I  could  ;  "  the — the  diamonds — Hugh 
wanted  to  see  how  I  should  look  iii  them.  They 
have  just  come  home." 

"  The  diamonds  ?"  repeated  she,  incredu- 
lously. "  Stuff  and  nonsense — the  fiddlesticks  ! 
What  are  they  made  of  ?  Bristol  paste,  or  bog 
crystal  ?" 

"  My  dear  Madam,"  said  Hugh,  shrugging  his 
shoulders,  "  do  you  suppose  I  should  allow  my 
wife  to  wear  mock  jewels  ?" 

My  aunt  snatched  the  tiara  from  my  head, 
and  examined  it  closely; 

"If  the  stones  are  real,  Hugh  Farquhar," 
said  she,  "  the  more  shame  for  you  !  No  man 
in  your  position  can  afford  to  buy  diamonds  at 
this  rate.  They'd  be  worth  eight  or  ten  thou- 
sand pounds." 

"  They  are  valued  at  twelve,"  replied  he, 
calmly. 

"  But  he  has  not  bought  them,"  I  inter- 
posed. "  They  are  old  family  jewels,  reset. 
They  belonged  to  his  mother,  and  his  grand- 
mother; and  some  of  them  are  older  still." 

"  Humph  !  And  are  you  going  to  be  such  a 
fool  as  to  wear  them,  Bab  ?" 

"  I  can  not  see  where  the  folly  would  be, 
aunt."  ♦ 

"  Nonsense  !  a  child  like  you ;  young  enough 
to  be  at  school  now — people  will  laugh  at  you." 

"  If  they  do,  the  folly  will  be  theirs.  As  the 
wife  of  a  gentleman,  and  the  daughter  of  a 
gentleman " 

"  Bab,  don't  argue  with  me.  I  won't  stand 
it.  I  think  one  of  you  might  have  offered  me  a 
seat  all  this  while,  considering  it's  the  first  time 
I've  called  on  you." 

"Forgive  me,  Mrs.  Sandyshaft,"  said  Hugh, 
placing  a  chair  for  her,  immediately ;  "  but  you 
took  us  so  by  surprise  that " 

"  That  you  forgot  your  good  manners,"  inter- 


rupted my  aunt,  sharply  ;  "  though,  goodness 
knows,  they're  not  much  to  boast  of  at  any 
time !" 

"  Always  indulgent  and  complimentary,  Mrs. 
Sandyshaft,"  retorted  he  with  a  bow  of  mock 
acknowledgment. 

Having  by  this  time  thrust  the  shawl  out  of 
sight,  and  shut  the  jewels  away  in  their  cases,  I 
hastened  to  divert  the  conversation  by  helping 
my  aunt  to  loosen  her  great  cloth  cloak  and 
boa,  and  telling  her  how  glad  I  was  to  see  her 
at  Broomhill. 

"You're  not  glad  to  see  me,  Bab,"  said  she, 
suspiciously.     "  I  don't  beHeve  it." 

"My  dearest  aunt,  why " 

"Because  I'm  old,  and  you're  young.  Be- 
cause I'm  crabbed  and  sour,  and  you're  happy 
and  gay.  Don't  tell  me  !  I  know  the  world  ; 
and  I  know  you'd  far  rather  have  my  room 
than  my  company !" 

"  You  know  nothing  of  the  kind,  aunt,"  I  re-  - 
plied,  giving  her  a  hearty  kiss  ;  "  and  you  don't 
mean  a  word  of  it." 

"  Every  syllable,"  said  she,  obstinately. 

"And  you  know  that  I  have  always  loved 
you  dearly,  and  that " 

"You  care  a  deal  more  for  your  trumpery 
diamonds,  and  your  ugly  ponies,  and  your  gauds 
of  silk  and  satin,  I'll  be  bound  !" 

"  How  dare  you  say  so  ?  I've  a  great  mind 
to  say  that  I  don't  love  you  a  bit — that  I  am 
very  sorry  to  see  you — that  I  wish  you  would 
go  away  directly,  and  not  even  stay  to  dine 
with  us,  like  a  dear,  good,  sociable,  welcome 
old  darling,  as  you  are !" 

" I'm  not  good,"  said  my  aunt,  grimly;  "and 
I  never  was  sociable." 

"  Be  bad  and  unsociable,  then,  if  you  like ; 
but  at  all  events  remain  a  few  hours  with  us, 
now  that  you  are  here,"  persuaded  I,  with  an 
impatient  glance  at  Hugh  to  second  my  invi- 
tation. 

"  I  think  Mrs.  Sandyshaft  will  stay,"  said  he, 
smiling. 

"  Do  you  ?"  exclaimed  she,  with  a  determined 
little  jerk  of  the  head.  "  Then  you're  mistaken. 
/  dine  with  you,  indeed  ?  No,  thank  you.  None 
of  your  outlandish  foreign  messes  for  me !  I  go 
home  to  my  plain  beef  and  mutton — ^plain  Eng- 
lish beef  and  mutton  !" 

"  But  my  dear  aunt,"  I  began,  "  you  shall " 

"  Bab,"  said  she,  "  you're  as  bad  as  he  is  by* 
this  time,  I've  no  doubt.    I  can't  eat  sour  kraut, 
my  dear.     It's  of  no  use  to  ask  me." 

"  What  shall  we  do,  Hugh,  to  persuade  her  ?" 
pouted  I;  fancying  that  she,  perhaps,  refused 
because  he  did  not  press  her  sufficiently.  "  How 
shall  we  make  her  believe  that  she  would  not 
be  poisoned  ?" 

"  We — that  is,  you,  can  do  no  more  than  you 
have  done,  my  child,"  replied  he,  drawing  back 
one  of  the  curtains,  and  looking  out  across  the 
park.  "  Still  I  am  of  opinion  that  Mrs.  Sandy- 
shaft will  stay." 

"  And  why  ?"  said  my  aunt. 

"  For  two  excellent  reasons  ;  the  first  of 
which  is  that  it  is  now  dark,  and' " 

"  I  have  my  old  close  carriage  with  me,"  in- 
terrupted my  aunt. 

" — and  rather  foggy,"  pursued  Hugh  ;  "  and 
your  old  close  carriage  has  just  disappeared 
through  the  gates  of  the  west  lodge." 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


183 


"  Disappeared !  Mercy  on  us  !  who  dared  to 
send  it  away  ?" 

"  I  did.     And  the  second  reason " 

"  But  I  tell  you  I  can't  stay,  and  I  won't  stay ! 
I  insist  on  having  it  called  back  !  Bab,  do  you 
hear  me  ? — I  insist  on  having  it  called  back." 

"And  the  second  reason,"  continued  Hugh, 
with  the  same  cheerful  impassibiUty,  "  is  that 
we  have  red  mullet  for  dinner." 

Now  if  there  was  one  delicate  dish  which 
more  than  another  tempted  my  aunt's  frugal 
appetite,  it  was  a  dish  of  red  mullet.  Distant 
as  we  were  from  any  large  town,  fish  was  at  all 
times  scarce  in  our  part  of  the  country ;  and 
red  mullet  especially  so.  It  was  not  in  human 
nature  to  resist  such  a  combination  of  circum- 
stances. My  aunt's  countenance  softened.  I 
suspect  that  she  had  wished,  in  her  heart,  to 
stay  with  us  from  the  first ;  but  the  red  mullet 
^ave  her  an  opportunity  of  doing  so'^pon 
purely  neutral  grounds,  and  that  was  no  small 
advantage. 

**  Red  mullet?"  said  she.  "Humph  !  Where 
did  you  get  it  ?" 

"  From  London — fresh  this  morning." 

"  And  how  d'ye  have  it  cooked  ?  Red  mul- 
let properly  cooked  is  the  best  dish  that  comes 
to  table  ;  but  messed  up  with  foreign  kick- 
shaws  " 

"  It  shall  be  dressed,  my  dear  aunt,"  said  I, 
"in  any  way  you  prefer." 

"  Well — what  else  will  you  give  me  ? — not 
but  what  I  can  make  my  dinner  off  the  fish,  if 
the  rest  is  uneatable." 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Sandyshaft,"  said  Hugh,  "  you 
shall  dine  exclusively  upon  red  mullet,  if  you 
please  ;  though  I  think  I  can  answer  for  a  pal- 
atable pheasant  as  well.  As  for  Barbara  and 
myself,  we,  of  course,  habitually  sit  dow^j.  to 
birds'  nest  soup,  fricasseed  frog,  alligators' 
brains  d  la  sauce,  potted  cobra-di-capello,  and 
other  foreign  trifles  of  the  same  kind ;  but  of 
these  you  need  not  partake,  unless  you  please." 

My  aunt  smiled  grimly. 

"  You  have  a  disgusting  imagination,  Hugh 
Farquhar,"  said  she ;  "  but  you  may  depend 
that  you  have  eaten  things  quite  as  bad,  and 
worse,  many  a  time  without  knowing  it." 

And  so  the  dinner  question  ended,  and  she 
staid.  How  often  and  how  vainly  I  afterward 
wished  that  I  had  never  persuaded  her  to  do  so  ! 

We  dined  at  seven,  and  it  was  nearly  six  by 
the  time  she  had  agreed  to  remain ;  but  that 
hour  was  actively  employed  by  Mrs.  Fairhead 
and  the  cook,  and  the  result  was  an  excellent 
dinner  in  the  genuine  English  style ;  so  well 
dressed  and  so  well  served,  that  it  even  elicited 
the  approbation  of  Mrs.  Sandyshaft  herself.  In 
addition  to  this,  Hugh,  of  course,  brought  out 
the  best  wines  that  his  well-stocked  cellars  af- 
forded ;  and,  at  dessert,  produced  a  very  small, 
cobwebbed,  ancient-looking  bottle,  which  was 
placed  upon  the  table  in  a  silver  stand,  as  rev- 
erently as  if  it  had  been  a  sacred  relic. 

"  What  have  you  got  there  ?"  ask^d  my  aunt, 
complacently. 

" A  patriarch,"  replied  Hugh.  "A patriarch 
that  once  dwelt  in  an  Emperor's  cellar,  and  was 
one  of  a  hundred  dozen  presented  by  the  Em- 
peror to  a  great  Jew  capitalist.  The  Jew  capi- 
talist died,  and  his  heirs  put  up  to  auction  all  his 
wines,  plate,  pictures,  books,  horses  and  person- 


al property.  At  this  auction  the  patriarch,  with 
his  surviving  brethren,  now  only  twelve  dozen 
in  number,  passed  into  the  hands  of  a  great 
English  physician,  famed  alike  for  his  wit,  hos- 
pitality, and  learning.  The  physician  and  ray 
father  were  friends  and  school-fellows.  My 
father  died  first ;  but  the  physician  remembered 
me  in  his  will,  and  left  me,  among  other  items, 
a  valuable  chronometer,  a  very  curious  Latin 
library,  and  the  last  fifteen  bottles  of  the  wine 
now  before  you.     Tippoo,  draw  the  cork." 

Tippoo  stepped  forward  from  behind  his  mas- 
ter's chair,  where  he  had  been  standing  like  a 
bronze  statue,  and  obeyed. 

"  Bring  me  three  Venetian  glasses." 

And  three  Venetian  glasses  (quaint,  delicate 
things,  with  bowls  like  finely  blown  soap-bub- 
bles, and  fantastic  wreath  stems  of  white  and 
sapphire  glass)  were  placed  before  him.  Into 
these  he  slowly  poured  the  precious  liquid, 
which  came  out  sullenly,  like  a  liquor,  and 
hung  in  heavy  red  drops  about  the  brim. 

My  aunt  tasted  hers  — set  it  down  —  tasted  it 
again  —  sniffed  it  —  held  it  up  to  the  light ;  and 
finally  said  — 

"  The  richest  wine  I  ever  tasted  in  my  life. 
What  is  it?" 

"Imperial  Tokay." 

"And  is  that  all  true  that  you've  been  telling 
us?" 

"  Evei'y  word  of  it.  The  Emperor  was  Fran- 
cis the  First  of  Austria;  the  capitalist  was 
Goldschmidt,  and  the  physician  was  Sir  Astley 
Cooper." 

"  I've  tasted  Tokay  before,"  said  my  aunt ; 
"  but  it  wasn't  like  this." 

"  I  dare  say  not.  This  is  the  real  Tokay  es- 
sence, and  is  used  by  Austrian  and  Hungarian 
wine-merchants  merely  as  a  flavoring  for  the 
Tokay  that  is  bought  and  sold.  The  genuine 
essence,  in  its  unadulterated  purity,  is  hardly  to 
be  tasted  at  other  than  royal  tables.  The  name 
of  this  wine  is  the  Mezes-Male  Tokay,  and  it 
grows  in  a  small  vineyard  which  is  the  property 
of  the  Emperor." 

"  It  must  be  valuable,"  said  my  aunt,  empty- 
ing her  glass  with  infinite  gusto. 

"  It  is  valuable.  This  wine  is  at  least  sixty 
years  old.  Sir  Astley  Cooper  bought  it  for. 
sixty-three  shillings  the  bottle.  The  bottle  con- 
tains six  glasses,  and  each  glassful  is  therefore 
worth  half  a  guinea.  The  Venetian  beakers 
out  of  which  we  drink  it  are  three  hundred 
years  old ;  and  the  value  of  each  beaker  is 
about  equivalent  to  a  bottle  of  the  wine. 
There's  a  pretty  piece  of  arithmetic  for  you, 
ladies." 

"  It's  drinking  money,"  exclaimed  my  aunt. 
"It's  sinful!" 

"  Pleasant  sinning,  however,"  replied  Hugh. 
"  PecJions  encore .'" 

"Not  for  the  world.  Mercy  on  us!  I 
wouldn't  have  drunk  that,  if  I  had  know  what 
it  was  worth." 

"Nonsense.     The   patriarch  is  sacrificed  ia_ 
your  honor,  and  you  are  bound  to  perform  your ' 
share  in  dispatching   him.     Tippoo,  fill  Mrs. 
Sandyshaft's  glass." 

"No  —  no  thank  you ;  not  another  drop  !" 

And  my  aunt  in  the  energy  of  her  abstinence, 
clapped  her  hand  so  roughly  over  the  top  of 
her  glass,  that  the  delicate  globe  snapped  away 


134 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


at  its  junction  with  the  stem,  rolled  over  the 
edge  of  the  table,  and  shattered  into  a  thousand 
fragments. 

"  Mercy  on  us !  —  a  glass  worth  three  pounds ! 
I'll  —  I'll  get  you  another  like  it !"  gasped  my 
aunt,  aghast  at  her  misfortune. 

"  Indeed  you  must  not  think  of  such  a  thing," 
said  Hugh.  "It  is  a  matter  of  no  importance. 
Tippoo,  another  glass  for  Mrs.  Sandyshaft." 

'*But  indeed  I  will !  I'll  have  every  curiosity 
shop  in  London  ransacked  till  I  find  one.  Give 
me  the  pieces  for  a  pattern,  please  —  dear, 
dear  me,  I  wish  people  wouldn't  eat  and  drink 
out  of  things  that  are  too  fine  for  use  !" 

"  People  who  do  so,  dearest  aunty,  must  be 
prepared  for  the  possible  consequences,"  laughed 
I.     *'  Pray  say  no  more  about  it." 

"  And  pray  do  not  attempt  to  replace  the 
glass  either,"  added  Hugh ;  "  for  it  would  be 
perfectly  useless.  I  bought  that  half-dozen  at 
the  sale  at  the  Manfrini  palace,  and  I  know 
there  are  no  others  like  them." 

"How  do  you  know  it?"  asked  my  aunt, 
snappishly. 

"  Because  I  am  a  connoisseur  of  antique  glass, 
and  am  acquainted  with  all  the  best  collections 
in  Europe." 

"  I  believe  Hugh  Farquhar,"  said  my  aunt, 
"  that  you  know  every  thing  that  isn't  worth 
knowing,  and  nothing  that  is." 

"I  know  that  this  Tokay  is  too  good  to  be 
refused.  Let  me  persuade  you  to  take  a  second 
glass." 

"Not  I!  I  only  wish  I  hadn't  taken  the 
first." 

"I  should  have  been  really  vexed  if  you  had 
declined  it,"  said  Hugh;  "for  it  is  a  wine  that 
I  only  produce  on  rare  occasions." 

"  The  rarer  the  better,  I  should  say,"  retorted 
my  aunt.  "  Especially  if  you  give  it  to  people 
in  glasses  that  can't  be  touched  without  being 
broken ;  and  which,  when  broken,  can  not  be  re- 
placed. It  may  be  a  compliment  —  I  dare  say 
it  is ;  but  it's  a  very  disagreeable  one,  let  me 
tell  you." 

"  I  wish,  upon  my  honor,  Mrs.  Sandyshaft, 
that  you  would  think  no  more  about  it." 

"  But  I  can't  help  thinking  about  it.  It  an- 
noys me." 

"  Well,  let  us,  at  all  events,  say  nothing  far- 
ther upon  the  subject." 

"  Oh,  it's  of  no  use  trying  to  impose  silence 
on  me,"  said  my  aunt.  "  What  I  think  of,  I 
talk  of.     It's  my  way." 

A  slight  flush  of  displeasure  rose  to  my  hus- 
band's brow,  and  he  looked  down  without  re- 
plying. He  had  been  admirably  poHte  and 
good-humored  up  to  this  time ;  but  I  could  see 
that  he  had  not  liked  the  tone  of  her  re- 
marks for  some  minutes  past. 

"And  besides,"  added  she,  working  herself 
into  a  worse  temper,  as  she  went  on,  "  I  hate  to 
incur  obligations  that  I  can't  return.  I  feel  I've 
cost  you  six  guineas  within  the  last  half-hour ; 
three  "of  which  at  least,  no  money  can  make 
'right  again." 

"  I  beg  leave  to  assure  you,  Mrs.  Sandyshaft," 
said  Hugh,  coldly,  "  that  I  am  not  in  the  habit 
of  estimating  the  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence 
which  it  may  cost  me,  when  I  entertain  a  friend 
at  my  table." 

"  Perhaps,  if  you  thought  a  little  more  about 


the  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence,  it  would  be  bet- 
ter for  you,"  repUed  she. 

"  Of  that  you  must  permit  me  to  judge." 

"  A  civil  way,  I  suppose,  of  desiring  me  to 
mind  my  own  business." 

"  My  dear  aunt,"  said  I,  growing  momentarily 
more  and  more  uneasy,  "  this  conversation  has 
wandered  quite  far  enough  from  the  subject. 
Pray  let  us  talk  of  something  else." 

"  Bab,  it's  neither  your  place,  nor  your  hus- 
band's, to  stop  my  mouth.  What  I  think,  I  think ; 
and  what  I  choose  to  say,  I  say  ;  and  both  Houses 
of  Parliament  shouldn't  prevent  me.  When  I 
see  people  extravagant,  and  ostentatious,  and 
thoughtless,  I  tell  'em  of  it.  If  they  don't  like 
to  hear  the  truth,  it's  not  my  fault." 

"  You  must  give  me  leave  to  say,  Mrs.  Sandy- 
shaft, that  I  am  really  at  a  loss  to  understand 
your  meaning,"  said  Hugh.  "If  I  could  suppose 
that  you  intended  those  expressions  for " 

"  Intended  ? — fiddlesticks !  Who  else  should  I 
intend  them  for  ?  You  are  ostentatious,  and  ex- 
travagant, and  thoughtless,  Hugh  Farquhar  ;  and 
you  know  it;  there  isn't  another  man  in  this 
county  who  has  spent  his  money  so  wildly  and 
foolishly  as  ^yourself — and  not  only  nis  money, 
but  all  the  most  precious  years  of  his  life,  into 
the  bargain.  Ah,  Bab,  it's  no  use  to  look  at  me 
like  that !  These  things  have  been  on  my  mind 
a  long  time,  and  now  that  I've  begun,  I'll  just 
say  my  say  out,  and  have  done  with  it.  I  tell 
you  I'm  sick  of  your  art-jargon,  and  absentee- 
ism, and  continental  ways — of  your  Paul  What- 
you-may-call-'ems,  and  your  ponies,  and  your 
curiosities,  and  your  nonsenses  and  follies.  Noth-. 
ing  English  is  good  enough  for  you.  If  you've 
a  horse,  he  must  be  Arabian.  If  you've  a  dog, 
he  must  be  a  St.  Bernard,  or  a  Dutch  pug,  or  a 
Freijph  poodle,  or  an  Italian  greyhound.  If  you 
buy  a  picture,  it's  never  a  Gainsborough  nor  a 
Sir  Joshua  Keynolds  ;  but  some  miserable  for- 
eign daub  got  up  in  the  back  slums  of  Rome  to 
dupe  the  English.  Every  sentence  you  speak  is 
interlarded  with  parley-voos.  The  very  servant 
that  stands  behind  your  chair  is  a  nasty,  sly, 
black,  heathenish  savage,  more  like  a  monkey 
than  a  man  !" 

"Stop,  Mrs.  Sandyshaft,"  interposed  Hugh, 
the  angry  vein  swelling  on  his  temple,  and  an 
ominous  flash  lighting  up  his  eyes.  "  I  can  make 
large  allowance  for  your  prejudices  and  your  tem- 
per ;  but  I  will  not  suffer  you  to  utter  malicious 
untruths  of  the  most  faithful  friend  and  servant 
I  have  ever  known." 

"  Oh,  Hugh !"  I  exclaimed,  "  she  does  not 
mean  it !  Pray,  pray  let  this  discussion  be 
ended !" 

"  Bab,  I  do  mean  it,"  repHed  my  aunt,  whose 
long-repressed  irritation  had  now  burst  forth  in  a 
fiery  torrent,  stronger  than  her  own  reason.  "  I 
do  mean  it,  and  it's  true ;  and  I  only  say  what 
every  body  thinks,  and  nobody  dares  to  say  be- 
fore his  face.  He's  no  Englishman.  No  man 
who  lives  as  he  has  Hved  these  last  twelve  or 
fifteen  years,  deserves  the  name  of  Enghsh- 
man.  He  has  performed  none  of  the  duties  be- 
longing to  his  position  in  the  county.  He  has 
neither  represented  it  in  Parliament ;  nor  served 
it  as  a  magistrate  ;  nor  improved  his  acres  ;  nor 
cultivated  the  good-will  of  his  neighbors  and  ten- 
ants ;  nor  done  any  one  single  thing  but  spend 
out  of  his  country  the  money  that  his  ancestors 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


185 


invested  in  it.  Nothing  but  ruin  can  come  of  it — 
nothing  but  ruin !" 

"  Upon  my  soul,  Mrs.  Sandyshaft,"  said  Hugh, 
rising  angrily  from  his  seat  at  the  table,  "  this  is 
insufferable  !  By  what  right  do  you  take  the 
liberty  of  judging  my  conduct  according  to  your 
standard  ?     I  have  yet  to  learn  that " 

"  By  the  right  of  my  relationship  to  this  poor, 
luckless,  mistaken  child  !"  interrupted  my  aunt. 
"  A  year  ago,  I  would  h«*^e  said  nothing  about 
it.  You  might  have  gone  to  perdition  your  own 
way,  for  any  interference  of  mine ;  but  now 
things  are  different.  Your  worthless  lot  is  linked 
up  with  hers,  and  if  you're  ruined,  she  must  be 
the  victim.  I  wish  she'd  never  seen  you.  I  wish 
I'd  never  seen  you.  I'd  as  soon  she'd  married 
a  strolling  player,  or  a  wandering  Arab,  as  you, 
Hugh  Farquhar!  You're  the  last  man  Uving 
whom  I'd  have  given  her  to,  if  I'd  had  any^oice 
in  the  matter  ;  and  I  don't  mind  telling  you  so  !" 

"  Having  told  me  so,  Mrs.  Sandyshaft,  and 
having,  I  presume,  insulted  me  sufficiently  at  my 
own  table,  you  will  now  be  satisfied,  and  permit 
me  to  wish  you  a  good  evening,"  said  Hugh,  look- 
ing very  pale,  and  moving  toward  the  door. 
"  Barbara,  I  leave  to  you  the  task,  or  the  pleas- 
ure, of  entertaining  Mrs.  Sandyshaft  during  the 
remainder  of  the  evening." 

"  That  won't  be  for  long,  then,  I  can  tell  you ; 
and  what's  more,  it  will  be  many  a  day  before  I 
cross  your  threshold  again." 

"  As  you  please.  Madam.' 

And  with  this,  he  left  the  room. 

"  Oh,  aunt  Sandyshaft !  aunt  Sandyshaft ! 
What  have  you  done?"  I  cried,  bursting  into 
tears. 

"Told  him  a  piece  of  my  mind,  Bab  ;  and 
much  good  may  it  do  him,"  replied  she,  stalking 
angrily  up  and  down  the  room. 

"But  you  will  never,  never  be  friends  again !" 

"  I  can't  help  that." 

"  But  I — what  am  I  to  do  ?  I  who  love  you 
both  so  well !  Remember  how  dear  he  is  to  me 
■ — my  husband " 

"  Bab,  he's  a  scamp.  He  is  not  worthy  of 
you." 

•  "  It  is  false  !     You  do  not  know  him — he  is 
the  best,  the  bravest,  the — the  noblest " 

My  sobs  choked  me,  and  I  broke  down.  My 
aunt  stopped  short  before  me,  and  struck  the 
table  violently  .with  her  open  hand. 

"  Bab,"  said  she,  "  you're  a  fool.  The  man 
will  break  your  heart  some  day,  and  then  you'll 
believe  me. ' 

A  few  minutes  more,  and  she  was  gone  ;  never, 
as  I  felt  in  my  heart,  to  return  again. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 


THE  MYSTERY  IN  THE  HOUSE. 


-to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love 


Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain." 

Chbistabel. 

Short  as  were  the  wintry  days,  and  frequent 
my  interruptions,  I  went  on  painting  regularly 
throughout  November  and  the  greater  part  of 
December.  The  beloved  occupation  did  me  good 
in  all  ways,  and  helped  to  keep  my  thoughts  from 
dwelling  too  constantly  on  that  painful  breach 


which  now  seemed  as  if  it  could  never  again  be 
healed  over.  My  aunt  had  been  the  aggressor  ; 
and  I  knew  her  too  well  to  hope  that  she  would 
ever  acknowledge  herself  wrong.  She  would  have 
died,  at  any  time,  rather  than  apologize.  This 
being  the  case,  I  found  it  more  and  more  diffi- 
cult to  keep  peace  with  her  ;  and  so  staid  chief- 
ly at  home  and  at  work,  during  the  time  that 
elapsed  between  the  great  Bayham  ball,  and  the 
evening  of  her  unfortunate  visit.  As  that  long 
appointed  date  drew  nearer,  my  picture  approach- 
ed completion.  The  subject  had  been  suggested 
by  Hugh  when  we  were  traveling  in  Switzerland, 
more  than  a  year  ago,  and  had  dwelt  in  my  re- 
collection as  a  hope  and  a  project  ever  since.  It 
represented  Erasmus  at  Basle. 

The  great  wit  and  theologian  was  seen  stand- 
ing, toward  evening,  on  the  terrace  in  front  of 
the  Cathedral,  looking  thoughtfully  over  toward 
the  hills  of  the  Schwartz-Wald.  The  sun  had 
just  set,  and  a  calm  light  filled  the  sky.  Far 
below  coursed  the  Rhine,  broad,  green,  and 
eddying.  Between  the  chestnut  trees  on  the 
terrace  peeped  the  quaint  red  columns  of  the 
cloister  which  he  loved  to  pace ;  and  on  the 
ledge  of  the  parapet,  against  the  stone-bench  on 
which  he  would  seem  to  have  been  sitting,  lay  an 
antique  folio,  printed,  perhaps,  by  Gutenberg  of 
Maintz.  On  the  figure  of  Erasmus  I  had  be- 
stowed infinite  pains,  having  made  a  sketch 
from  his  portrait  in  the  Concilium  Saal  for  this 
purpose.  Desirous  of  representing  him  as  he 
appeared  toward  the  latter  end  of  his  life,  when 
he  had  returned  to  Basle  for  the  secopd  time,  I 
took  care  to  deepen  the  lines  about  the  face ; 
and  strove  to  light  it  up,  as  if  from  within,  with 
that  divine  expression  of  hope  and  resignation 
which  is  said  to  have  settled  upon  it,  like  a  glory, 
during  his  last  sufferings.  He  wore  a  long 
furred  robe,  and  a  flat,  three-cornered  cap  of 
black  velvet.  One  thin  hand  rested  on  the 
book,  while  with  the  other  he  supported  his  frail 
and  failing  form  upon  a  'Stick  with  a  transverse 
handle,  like  a  short  crutch.  Close  of  day,  and 
close  of  stainless  life  ;  peace  within,  and  peace 
on  the  world  without ;  night  coming  on,  and 
the  Great  Dawn  after  the  night : — these  were 
the  thoughts  I  sought  to  utter  upon  the  canvas ; 
this  was  the  tale  I  endeavored,  however  im- 
perfectly, to  relate. 

It  happened  one  morning,  when  Hugh  was 
out  with  his  gun,  and  I  had  settled  down  to  a 
long  day's  work,  that  I  became  dissatisfied,  some- 
how, with  the  folio  on  the  parapet.  I  had  taken 
the  1623  Shakspeare  for  my  model — a  fine  old 
book,  which  looked  as  though  it  might  have 
sat  for  its  portrait  to  the  author  of  these 
well-known  lines  descriptive  of  a  medieval 
volume: — 

"  That  weight  of  wood,  with  leathern  coat  o'erlaid, 
Those  ample  clasps  of  solid  metal  made, 
The  close-pressed  leaves  unclosed  for  many  an  age, 
The  dull  red  edging  of  the  well-filled  page, 
On  the  broad  back  the  stubborn  ridges  rolled. 
Where  yet  the  title  stands  in  tarnished  gold."  • 

The  Shakspeare's  "leathern  coat,"  however, 
was  of  dark  brown  calf,  and  looked  too  somber  • 
when  seen  in  conjunction  with  the  deepening 
shadows  on  the  terrace,  and  the  dark-robed 
figure  of  Erasmus.  I  placed  the  picture  in 
various  lights,  and  the  more  I  looked,  the  more 
I  became  convinced  that  some  less  heavy  color 


136 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


would  improve  the  composition.  What  if  I 
made  it  a  binding  of  antique  vellum,  toned  by 
age  to  a  mellow  golden  hue,  in  harmony  with 
the  warm  tints  of  the  sky  ?  I  had  seen  one 
whole  compartment  full  of  such  in  the  library 
below — great,  ponderous,  ancient  folios  of  theo- 
logic  lore,  lettered  "  Ada  Sanctorum^^^  and  ex- 
tending through  some  thirty  or  forty  volumes. 
Could  I  do  better  than  take  one  of  these  ? 
Could  I,  if  I  searched  for  a  year,  place  in  the 
hands  of  Desiderius  Erasmus  a  work  which  he 
was  more  likely  to  have  had  in  frequent  use  ? 
Delighted  with  the  idea,  and  eager  to  put  it  into 
immediate  execution,  I  ran  down  at  once  to  the 
library,  to  select  my  volume. 

The  circular  stove  within  its  trellis  of  wrought 
bronze,  diffused  a  mild  warmth  throughout  the 
great  room.  The  wintry  sunlight  poured  in  at 
intervals  through  the  lofty  windows,  and  fell  in 
bright  patches  on  the  floor.  The  long  rows  of 
books,  shelf  above  shelf,  in  their  rich  and 
varied  bindings,  glowed  with  a  friendly  lustre, 
and  gave  out  a  pleasant  odor  of  Russia  and 
Morocco.  The  brass  wire-work  glittered  like 
gold.  It  was  a  place  to  have  made  even  a 
savage  in  love  with  books  —  a  columbarium 
where  there  was  found  neither  dust,  nor  ashes, 
nor  funereal  urns  ;  but  only  caskets  of  rich  work- 
manship embalming  the  souls  of  the  wise. 

The  library,  as  I  think  I  have  already  men- 
tioned elsewhere,  was  divided  into  compartments 
of  carved  oak ;  each  of  which  was  about  four 
feet  in  width,  and  reached  all  the  way  to  the 
ceiling,  where  it  terminated  in  a  simple  cornice 
supporting  a  small  entablature.  Of  these  com- 
partments there  were  sixteen  on  the  right  hand 
side,  divided  half  way  by  the  stove,  which  stood 
somewhat  back  in  an  antique  carved  fireplace. 
On  the  opposite  side,  divided  at  regular  intervals 
by  five  long  windows,  stood  twelve  similar  com- 
partments; while  at  the  end  the  great  Tudor 
window,  through  which  I  was  caught  peeping  so 
many  years  ago,  filled  in  the  vista  with  rich 
heraldic  emblazonments  of  stained  glass,  through 
which  the  daylight  filtered  in  streams  of  purple 
and  gold. 

And  all  this  was  his  and  mine  ! 
There  were  moments,  now  and  then,  when  I 
seemed  to  wake  up  to  a  sense  of  sudden  wonder 
and  gratitude,  scarce  believing  that  my  happiness 
was  more  than  a  dream ;  and  this  was  one  of 
those  moments.  I  paused;  looked  up  and 
down  the  noble  gallery;  and  asked  myself 
what  I  had  done  to  deserve  so  much  devotion, 
so  much  wealth,  so  great  and  many  advantages  ? 
Truly,  I  had  done  nothing  but  love,  and  love 
perfectly;  and  my  love  had  brought  its  own 
"  exceeding  great  reward."  Was  not  that 
reward  too  gracious  and  abundant  ?  Was  I  old 
enough,  and  wise  enough,  to  use  it  rightly?  I 
could  but  try,  humbly,  earnestly,  faithfully.  I 
could  but  try ;  and  I  would  try — and  my  eyes 
grew  dim  as  I  registered  that  silent  resolution, 
which  was  a  prayer  and  a  promise  in  one. 

Turning  these  things  over  in  my  mind,  I 
passed  slowly  up  the  library,  looking  for  the 
compartment  of  the  "  Acta  Sancto7'uin.^^  I 
found  it  at  the  farthest  end,  making  the  last 
compartment  on  the  right  hand  side,  on  a  line 
with  the  fireplace.  I  have  said  that  the  books 
were  protected  by  wire  screens.  These  wire 
screens  worked  upon  hinges,  and  opened  in  the  I 


middle  of  each  compartment,  like  folding-doors. 
I  turned  the  key  ;  took  out  the  first  volume  on 
which  I  happened  to  lay  my  hand ;  and  was 
about  to  close  the  book-case  without  further 
investigation,  when  it  occurred  to  me  that  the 
folios  on  the  left  half  of  the  compartment  looked 
fresher  and  more  attractive.  I  therefore  re- 
placed it ;  unbolted  the  other  half  of  the  wire- 
door  ;  and  proceeded  to  take  down  another 
specimen.  » 

To  my  surprise,  the  book  would  not  stir.  I 
tried  its  next  neighbor,  and  then  one  on  the 
shelf  below ;  and  still  with  the  same  result. 
Looking  more  closely,  I  found  that,  although 
their  vellum  backs  were  gilt  and  lettered  pre- 
cisely like  those  on  the  adjoining  shelves,  they 
were,  in  fact,  not  books  at  all ;  but  imitations 
put  there  to  fill  a  vacant  space.  No  wonder 
they  looked  fresher  than  their  genuine  brethren, 
which  had  withstood  the  wear  of  centuries  ! 

Half  smiling  at  the  deception  and  its  success, 
I  was  about  to  turn  back  to  my  former  choice, 
when  a  thought  flashed  across  me,  like  a  revela- 
tion, and  brought  the  blood  in  a  torrent  to  my 
face.  The  door  !  The  door  that  I  had  heard  aa 
I  came  in  that  morning,  weeks  and  weeks  ago ! 
The  secret  door  of  which  no  one  knew  any  thing, 
and  for  suggesting  the  very  possibility  of  which 
I  was  laughed  at  as  a  romantic  child  ! 

Trembling  with  excitement,  I  eagerly  examin- 
ed the  false  half  of  the  sixteenth  compartment, 
in  every  part.  If  it  were  a  door,  it  must  open 
somewhere ;  and  that  opening  would,  most 
likely,  be  hidden  in  some  part  of  the  woodwork. 
Nevertheless,  I  scrutinized  the  woodwork  in 
vain.  I  next  looked  for  the  hinges;  but  no 
trace  of  a  hinge  was  visible.  I  then  thought 
that  one  of  the  mock  books  might,  perhaps,  be 
movable,  concealing  a  lock  at  the  back ;  but 
having  tested  all  in  succession,  I  found  all  false 
alike.  At  last  I  began  to  think  I  must  be 
mistaken,  and  that  no  door  existed,  after  all. 

Having  come  to  this  conclusion,  I  chanced  to 
pass  my  hand,  almost  mechanically,  along  the 
under  edges  of  the  shelves.  I  did  not  even  say 
to  myself  "  there  may  be  a  bolt  here ;"  but  I  did 
it,  as  if  by  a  kind  of  instinct.  Suddenly  my 
finger  slipped  into  a  groove,  and  encountered  a 
metal  catch.  I  drew  back,  flushed  and  agitated, 
and  scarcely  able  to  stand.  I  had  suspected  the 
existence  of  the  door ;  I  had  searched  for  it ; 
and  now  that  I  had  found  it,  I  was  terrified  by 
my  own  discovery.  What  weakness !  Half 
angry  with  myself,  and  half  defiant,  I  pulled  the 
catch  quickly  back,  and,  leaning  my  knee  against 
the  books,  saw  the  five  lower  shelves  yield  at 
once  to  the  pressure,  swing  back  on  concealed 
hinges,  and  reveal  a  narrow  dark  passage  of 
about  two  feet  in  width.  The  passage  once  be- 
fore me,  I  plunged  into  it  without  a  second's 
hesitation  ;  struck  my  foot  almost  immediately 
against  the  first  step  of  a  steep  and  narrow  stair- 
case ;  and  felt  my  way  cautiously  upward. 

I  counted  the  steps,  one  by  one,  till  I  reached 
the  eighteenth,  and  then  my  outstretched  hand 
came  suddenly  against  a  door.  It  was  totally 
dark,  and  only  a  faint  gleam  from  below  showed 
the  way  by  which  I  had  come ;  for  the  staircase 
seemed  to  have  turned  in  ascending,  and  the 
hidden  door  had  swung  nearly  close  again,  after 
I  passed  through.  I  felt  the  panels  over,  with 
the  slow  and  careful  touch  of  a  blind  person. 


I 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


137 


I  found  a  small  metal  knob,  which  turned  noise- 
lessly within  my  grasp.  I  paused.  My  heart 
beat  violently.  My  forehead  was  bathed  in  a 
cold  perspiration.  I  asked  myself  for  the  first 
time  what  it  was  that  I  was  about  to  see  when 
this  door  was  opened  ?  What  chamber,  long 
closed — what  deed  of  mystery,  long  forgotten — 
what  family-secret,  long  buried,  would  be  reveal- 
ed to  my  eyes  ?  "Was  it  right,  after  all,  that  I 
should  pursue  this  discovery?  Ought  I  not, 
perhaps,  to  go  back  as  I  had  come ;  tell  my 
husband  of  the  secret  upon  which  I  had  stum- 
bled ;  and  leave  it  to  him  to  deal  with  according 
to  his  pleasure  ?  Hesitating  thus,  I  had,  even 
now,  more  than  half  a  mind  to  go  no  farther. 
It  was  a  struggle  between  delicacy  and  curiosity ; 
but  I  was  a  mere  woman,  after  all,  and  curiosity 
prevailed. 

"  Come  what  may,"  said  I  aloud,  "  I  will  see 
what  lies  beyond  this  door !"  "^ 

And  with  this  I  opened  it. 

My  disappointment  was  great.  I  had  strung 
myself  up  for  the  sight  of  something  strange 
and  terrible — ^for  closed  shutters,  through  which 
a  narrow  thread  of  daylight  should  half  reveal  a 
room,  in  every  corner  of  which  the  dust  of  years 
would  lie  like  a  mysterious  mantle ;  for  a  floor 
stained,  perchance,  with  blood,  and  furniture 
giving  evidence  in  its  disorder  of  some  fearful 
struggle  enacted  long  ago  ;  for  something,  per- 
haps, even  more  ghastly  still ;  and  now — 

And  now  I  found  myself,  instead,  upon  the 
threshold  of  a  pretty,  cheerful,  bright  little 
sitting-room,  with  a  good  fire  Ijlazing  in  the 
grate,  and  a  window  overlooking  part  of  the 
gferubberies.  The  walls  were  covered  with 
books  and  pictures.  In  a  cage  hanging  against 
the  window,  sang  and  fluttered  a  pair  of  little 
gold-colored  canaries.  Across  the  back  of  an 
easy  chair  beside  the  fireplace  lay  a  woman's 
shawl  of  black  cashmere,  bound  with  black 
velvet ;  and  on  the  table  lay  a  pile  of  books, 
some  of  them  open ;  a  desk ;  writing  materials ; 
and  a  small  work-basket. 

I  had  made  a  wonderful  discovery,  after  all ! 
Here  was,  doubtless,  some  little  sanctum  sacred 
to  the  private  hours  of  good  Mrs.  Fairhead ;  and 
a  very  snug  little  sanctum^  too  ! 

"She  must  be  fond  of  reading,"  thought  I, 
looking  round  at  the  books  with  some  surprise. 
"  Where  can  she  have  got  all  these  ?  And  what 
kind  of  literature  does  she  indulge  in  ?" 

I  went  over  to  the  table,  smiling  at  my  own 
thoughts,  and  expecting  to  find  the  works  of 
Soyer  and  Miss  Acton  on  the  desk  of  my  studi- 
ous housekeeper.  But  the  smile  vanished  and 
left  me  cold,  motionless,  paralyzed. 

The  first  book  on  which  my  eyes  fell  was  en- 
titled "  Storia  d'Italia,  di  Francesco  Guic- 
CiARDiNi,  gentiluomo  di  Firenze.'^ 

I  sat  down,  mechanically,  in  the  chair  facing 
the  desk,  and  closed  my  eyes,  like  one  who  is 
stunned  by  a  sudden  blow.  A  history  of  Italy, 
in  Italian !  How  should  this  thing  be  possible  ? 
Who,  in  my  house,  could  read  that  book,  unless 
it  were  my  husband  or  myself  ?  Surely  I  must 
be  mad,  or  dreaming. 

I  opened  my  eyes  again ;  but  the  same  words 
stared  me  in  the  face.  Another  book  lay  beside 
it,  also  opened — the  celebrated  "Storia  della 
Letteratura  Italiana  "  of  Tiraboschi.  Three 
or  four  others  were  within  reach.    These  I  drew 


toward  me  with  shaking  hands  that  could 
scarcely  turn  the  leaves.  I  examined  them  in  a 
kind  of  dull  stupor.  They  were  "Baretti's 
Italian  and  English  Dictionary,"  "Waverley," 
the  "Pr/^iom"  of  Silvio  Pellico,  and  Rogers's 
"  Italy." 

Who,  then,  was  the  reader  of  these  books  ? 
Who  the  inhabitant  of  this  room?  I  looked 
round  vaguely,  with  a  sense  of  bewildered  un- 
easiness, such  as  one  feels  in  a  dream,  when  on 
the  verge  of  some  unknown  danger.  There  lay 
the  shawl — here  the  work-basket.  Then  it  was 
a  woman.  Merciful  God !  what  woman  ?  Why 
had  I  never  seen  her  ?  Why  had  no  one  told 
me  that  she  lived  under  my  roof?  What  was 
her  name  ?  What  right  had  she  here  ?  Was 
Hugh  in  the  secret  ?  Was  Mrs.  Fairhead  ? 
Were  they  both  deceiving  me ;  and,  if  so,  for 
what  purpose  ?  I  sprang  to  my  feet.  I  felt  as 
if  my  brain  were  on  fire.  Finding  no  name 
written  in  any  of  the  books  on  the  table,  I 
turned  to  those  on  the  shelves,  and  tore  down 
volume  after  volume  with  feverish  haste.  They 
were  chiefly  Italian,  some  much  worn,  and  some 
yet  uncut— Manzoni,  Alfieri,  Metastasio,  Ariosto, 
and  the  like.  In  none  of  them,  any  writing. 
There  were  pictures  on  the  walls  ;  colored  prints 
and  engravings,  for  the  most  part — Naples,  Mes- 
sina, Psestum,  and  the  Grotto  of  Capri.  There 
were  ornaments  on  the  chimney-piece — a  leaning 
Tower  in  alabaster,  a  bronze  Temple  of  Vesta, 
a  model  of  Milan  Cathedral.  Italy — everywhere 
Italy ! 

Then  this  woman  was  Italian. 

The  very  thought  that  she  was  Italian  seemed, 
somehow,  to  make  the  mystery  less  endurable- 
than  before.  I  felt  that  I  hafed  her,  unknown 
as  she  was.  All  my  senses  appeared  to  be  un- 
naturally keen.  Nothing  escaped  me.  I  saw 
every  thing,  and  reasoned  upon  all  that  I  saw 
with  a  rapidity  and  directness  that  seemed  like 
inspiration.  Possessed  by  a  kind  of  despairing 
recklessness,  I  searched  every  article  of  furni- 
ture, every  shelf ;  even  the  shawl  on  the  chair  ; 
even  the  work-basket  on  the  table.  Then  I 
opened  the  desk.  At  any  other  time,  the  mere 
thought  of  such  an  act  would  have  shocked  me ; 
but  now,  half  insane  as  I  was,  I  did  it  without 
even  the  consciousness  of  possible  wrong. 

The  first  things  that  I  saw  inside  were  a  small 
book  and  a  little  oval  velvet  case,  about  the  size 
of  a  five-shilling  piece.  I  opened  the  book  first ; 
a  dainty  pocket  volume  of  Petrarch's  Sonnets, 
bound  in  scarlet  morocco,  with  a  gilt  clasp.  On 
the  first  leaf  was  written  in  Hugh's  bold  hand, 
somewhat  cramped  to  suit  the  tiny  page  — 
^^  3faddalena,  del  suo  amico — H.  K" 

Maddalena  !     Her  name  was  Maddalena. 

Then  I  took  up  the  oval  case.  A  mist  swam 
before  my  eyes.  I  scarcely  dared  to  look  at  the 
portrait  within,  even  when  it  lay  open  before 
me— but  I  did  look.  It  was  Hugh— a  younger 
Hugh,  beardless,  boyish,  different,  and  yet  the 
same.  Opposite  the  portrait,  on  a  gold  plate 
inside  the  cover,  were  engraved  the  words 
"  Huffo  a  Maddalena.'^ 

I  do  not  know  how  long  I  stood  gazing  down 
upon  this  in  my  dumb  despair ;  but  it  seemed  as 
if  hours  had  gone  by,  when  I  at  last  dropped 
again  into  the  chair,  laid  my  head  and  arms  on 
the  table,  and  burst  into  an  agony  of  sobbing. 

Presently  I  became  conscious  that  there  waa 


188 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


some  one  in  the  room.  I  had  heard  no  one 
enter ;  but  I  felt  that  I  was  no  longer  alone. 
Looking  up  in  sudden  terror  and  defiance,  I  saw 
my  husband  standing  before  me.  He  was  very- 
pale — lividly  pale — and  his  eyes  were  full  of 
tears. 

"  My  poor  Barbara,"  said  he,  softly,  and  held 
out  his  hand.  I  shrank  back,  involuntarily. 
He  shuddered. 

"  No,  no,"  he  said,  "  not  that !  any  thing  but 
that."  Then,  as  if  recollecting  himself,  he  re- 
sumed his  former  tone,  and  added,  "  I  see  it  all, 
my  Barbara.  Come  with  me — truSt  me — and  I 
will  explain  every  thing." 

I  pointed  to  the  portrait. 

"  Yes,  every  thing,  my  darling — every  thing." 


CHAPTER  L. 

THE   STORY   OP   MADDALENA. 

"Un  pezzo  di  cielo  caduto  in  terra." — Sannazaro. 

"  Poor  Maddalena  !"  said  Hugh.  "  Her  life 
is  very  solitary — her  story  very  brief.  An  exile 
from  her  country,  a  fugitive  from  her  family,  she 
has  for  years  taken  refuge  under  my  roof  It  is 
her  only  home.  Alone  here  with  her  books  and 
her  sad  thoughts,  she  wears  away  the  slow  cycle 
of  a  companionless  existence.  She  is  no  longer 
young ;  and  she  has  no  friend  in  all  the  wide 
world,  but  myself.  You  will  pity  her,  my  Bar- 
bara, as  I  do,  when  you  have  heard  me  to  the 
end.  i 

"  You  know  that  I  chanced  to  be  abroad  when 
my  father  died.  It  was  my  first  visit  to  the 
Continent,  and  I  was  making  what  was  then 
called  the  '  grand  tour.'  I  loved  him  very  dearly, 
and  could  not  endure  to  return  to  the  home 
where  I  should  have  missed  him  in  every  room  ; 
so  I  prolonged  my  travels  indefinitely  ;  and,  in- 
stead of  coming  back  to  England,  went  farther 
and  farther  East,  leading  a  wild  nomadic  life, 
and  seeking  to  forget  my  sorrow  in  deeds  of 
peril  and  adventure.  Wearying  at  length  of 
the  tent  and  the  saddle,  I  retraced  my  steps,  after 
a  year  and  a  half  of  Oriental  wanderings,  and  re- 
•turned  westward  as  far  as  Naples ;  where  I  bought 
a  yacht,  hired  a  villa  at  Capri,  and  lived  like  a 
hermit.  Here  Tippoo  and  a  female  servant  con- 
stituted all  my  establishment ;  while,  for  the 
management  of  my  little  yacht,  I  needed  only 
one  sailor  and  a  pilot.  The  pilot's  name  was 
Jacopo.  He  lived  in  the  island,  and  was  at  my 
service  when  I  needed  him.  The  sailor  slept  on 
board  ;  and  there  was  a  sheltered  cove  at  the  foot 
of  my  garden,  where  we  used  to  cast  anchor. 

"  In  this  place  I  lived  a  delightful  life.  Every 
day  I  coasted  about  the  enchanting  shores  and 
islands  of  the  Neapolitan  bay  ;  sketching  ;  fish- 
ing ;  reading  Cicero,  Suetonius  and  Virgil ;  land- 
ing wherever  it  pleased  my  fancy ;  and  wandel*- 
ing  among  the  ruins  of  Paestum,  Pompeii,  and 
Baiae.  My  books,  at  this  time,  were  my  only  as- 
sociates. I  knew  no  one  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Naples,  and  desired  only  to  be  alone.  It  was  a 
strange  life  for  a  young  man,  not  yet  twenty- 
three  years  of  age. 

"  I  have  already  mentioned  to  you  my  pilot 
Jacopo.  He  was  a  swarthy,  handsome  fellow, 
about  three  years  older  than  myself,  sullen,  active, 
and  taciturn  as  a  Turk.     All  I  knew  of  him  was 


that  he  was  unmarried,  and  lived  somewhere  on 
the  other  side  of  the  island.  Accident,  however, 
brought  me  to  a  knowledge  of  his  family.  Com- 
ing home  one  afternoon,  about  two  hours  before 
sunset,  and  running  the  yacht  into  our  little  har- 
bor, I  saw  a  young  contadina  waiting  in  the  shad- 
ow of  the  rocks.  As  Jacopo  sprang  on  shore, 
she  ran  to  meet  him,  clasped  him  by  the  arm 
with  both  hands,  and  spoke  with  great  apparent 
earnestness.  He,  in  reply,  nodded,  muttered 
some  three  or  four  brief  syllables,  and  kissed  her 
on  the  forehead.  She  then  ran  lightly  up  one 
of  the  many  rugged  paths  that  here  intersect  the 
face  of  the  cliff",  and  disappeared.  As  we  went 
up  to  the  house,  I  laughed  at  Jacopo  about  his 
innamorata.  '  She'  is  no  innamorata,  signore,' 
said  he.  '  She  is  my  sister.'  '  Thy  sister,  Jaco- 
po,' repeated  I.  '  Hast  thou  a  sister,  amico  P 
'  I  have  a  sister,  signore,  and  a  brother,  and  a 
sister-in-law,'  replied  he ;  '  and  Maddalena  tells 
me  that  the  sister-in-law  has  this  day  been  de- 
livered of  her  first-born.  The  babe  will  be  bap- 
tized to-night,  and  if  the  signore  wants  me  no 

more  this  evening '     '  No,  no,  Jacopo,'  said  I. 

'  Go  to  the  baptism,  by  all  means,  llhou  wilt 
act  as  godfather  ?'  '  Si,  signore,  and  as  father, 
too ;  Paolo  being  away.'  '  Who  is  Paolo  ?'  '  My 
brother,  signore,  who  is  at  sea.'  '  Friend  Jaco- 
po,' said  I,  '  do  you  think  the  sister-in-law  would 
allow  me  to  be  among  the  guests  ?'  Jacopo 
flushed  up  under  his  dark  skin,  and  said  she 
would  think  it  a  great  honor.  '  But,'  added  he, 
with  a  kind  of  proud  shame,  '  it  is  a  poor  place, 
signore.'  To  which  I  replied  that  I  was  a  citizen 
of  the  world,  and  all  places  were  alike  to  me  ; 
and  so  it  was  settled.  We  then  started  at  once 
for  his  home,  striking  across  the  island  by  short 
cuts  and  sheep-tracks  known  to  my  companion, 
who  preceded  me  in  his  accustomed  silence.  By 
and  by  we  came  again  in  sight  of  the  sea,  and, 
following  the  course  of  the  shore,  reached  an 
open  space,  or  high  level  plateau,  on  the  very 
verge  of  which  stood  a  small  antique  stone  dwell- 
ing, bowered  in  with  trellised  vines,  and  almost 
overhanging  the  sea.  A  raised  terrace  in  front ; 
a  little  garden  at  the  back,  full  of  orange  and 
fig-trees ;  a  rude  dove-cot  clinging,  like  a  para- 
site, to  the  walls  of  an  outhouse ;  a  few  goats 
browsing  on  the  herbage  round  a:bout  ;  and  a 
flight  of  rough  steps,  hewn  in  the  solid  rock,  and 
leading  down  to  the  beach,  seventy  feet  below, 
made  up  the  picture  of  this  humble  home.  As 
we  drew  near  the  music  of  a  zampogna  and  tam- 
bourine became  audible ;  and  Maddalena  came  out 
to  meet  us.  Learning  that  I  was  the  padrone^ 
she  kissed  my  hand,  bade  me  welcome,  and  made 
me  known  to  the  guests.  They  were  the  priest ; 
some  fishermen  and  their  wives ;  and  one  Mat- 
teo,  a  wealthy  peasant,  who  kept  the  only  little 
alhergo  in  Capri,  They  all  rose  at  our  approach. 
The  zampogna  and  tambourine  players  laid  aside 
their  instruments ;  the  priest  put  on  his  alb  and 
chasuble ;  the  inn-keeper  made  his  best  bow ; 
and  we  all  went  into  the  house,  where,  in  a  room 
opening  on  the  garden,  lay  the  young  mother 
and  her  infant ;  their  cleM  white  coverlet  strewn 
with  sprigs  of  rosemary  and  fresh  thyrne,  and  a 
crucifix  at  the  head  of  the  bed.  Jacopo  and 
Maddalena  then  stood  by  as  sponsors — the  priest 
gabbled  through  the  baptismal  formula — the  lit- 
tle Christian  protested  lustily  against  the  mouthful 
of  salt  administered  to  him  on  the  finger  of  the 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY 


139 


holy  man ;  and  so  the  ceremony  ended.     Mad- 
dalena  then  ran  to  prepare  supper  on  the  terrace, 
while  we  congratulated  the  mother,  and  made 
such  little  presents  to  the  baby  as  each  could  af- 
ford.    Thus  the  priest  gave  a  tiny  medal,  blessed 
by  the  Pope  ;  Jacopo  a  piece  of  linen  ;  the  inn- 
keeper a  string  of  coral  beads  ;  and  I,  in  pledge  of 
a  gift  to  come,  a  broad  gold  coin,  for  which  the 
mother  and  Jacopo  kissed  my  hands.  After  this  we 
we  went  oiit  on  the  terrace,  and  supped  by  sunset, 
waited  on,  in  Eastern  fashion,  by  the  women.     I 
shall  never  forget  the  crimson  splendor  of  that 
evening  sky,  nor  the  pastoral  charm  of  that  rustic 
festival,  at  which  Plenty  and  Good-will  presided, 
like  unseen  gods.     There  was  white  bread  made 
from  Indian  corn,  and  wine  in  goat-skin  vessels. 
There  were  crabs  fried  in  olive-oil ;  quails,  for 
which  the  island  is  famous  ;  omelettes,  dried  fish, 
salad,  fresh  cucumbers,  melons,  green  figs,  maca- 
roni, and  the  delicious  nco^a  of  goat's-milk,'^hich 
every  peasant  of  South  Italy  is  skilled  in  making. 
While  we  were  yet  feasting,  the  tender  twilight 
came  on,  and  the  broad  summer  moon  rose  over 
the  tops  of  the  olive-trees,  glowing  and  golden. 
Then  the  tables  were  cleared  away  ;  the  priest 
took  his  leave ;  those  who  could  play  snatched 
up  their  instruments ;  and  a  circle  was  formed 
on  the  grassy  plateau  for  the  tarantella.     I  could 
dance  it  myself,  then,  as  well  as  any  Neapolitan 
among  them  ;  and  so,  by  and  by,  took  Maddale- 
na  for  my  partner,  and  delighted  my  simple  hosts 
by  performing  their  national  dance  like  one  '  to 
the  manner  born.'     Would  you  know  what  Mad- 
dalena  was  like  when  I  first  saw  her  ?     Well,  I 
will  try  to  describe  her.     She  was  about  eighteen 
years  of  age,  and  looked  somewhat  older.     Her 
features  were  agreeable  without  being  handsome. 
Her  complexion  was  pale,  her  figure  slight,  her 
hair  black  and  abundant.     At  eighteen,  most 
Italian  women  are  married  or  betrothed;  but 
Maddalena  was  neither.     Her  life  had,  hitherto, 
been  devoted  to  her  brothers.     Their  will  was 
her  law ;  and  if  she  feared  Jacopo  more  than  she 
loved  him,  she  adored  Paolo  and  his  wife  with 
her  whole  heart.     I  learned  these  things  after- 
ward, and  by  degrees ;  but  I  tell  them  to  you 
now,  carina^  to  make  my  story  clearer  and  briefer. 
For  a  peasant — and  you  must  remember,  my  Bar- 
bara, that  she  was  nothing  but  a  peasant — Mad- 
dalena had  a  more  than  ordinary  air  of  intelli- 
gent thoughtfulness.     Something  of  this  she  may 
have  owed  to  her  housewifely  habits  and  seclud- 
ed life  ;  but  much  also  to  natural  abilities  of  no 
common  order.     For  all  this,  she  could  neither 
read  nor  write ;  and  was  as  ignorant  as  a  child 
of  all  the  world  that  was  not  Capri.      She  had 
never  been  farther  than  Naples   in  her  life. 
Her  beads  were  her  library ;  the  Madonna  was 
her  religion ;  Tasso,  as  she  had  now  and  then 
heard  him  chanted  by  the  Canta  Storia^  her 
only  historian. 

"  I  have  always  loved  to  identify  myself  with 
the  life  of  the  people  in  every  land  that  I  have 
visited,  and  my  introduction  to  this  family  of 
simple  islanders  gave  me  unusual  pleasure.  I 
staid  with  them  till  nearly  midnight,  taking 
my  turn  at  the  guitar  or  the  tarantella ;  helping 
Maddalena  to  mix  lemonade  for  the  thirsty 
dancers ;  and  joming,  between  whiles,  in  the 
chorus  of  a  canto  popolaro.  When,  at  length, 
I  bade  them  farewell,  and  went  home,  with 
Jacopo  for  my  guide,  the  fishers  were  out  in  the 


bay  with  their  nets  and  torches,  like  sea  meteors, 
and  the  moon  was  declining  with  yet  unabated 
splendor. 

*' '  I  shall  go  over  to  Naples  to-morrow, 
Jacopo,'  said  I,  as  we  went  along.  '  Si,  signore.' 
— 'But  you  must  tell  me  what  gifts  to  buy.' 
Jacopo  shook  his  head.  '  Nay,  but  how  can  I 
guess  what  would  be  acceptable  to  the  father  and 
mother?'  Jacopo,  however,  was  as  proud  and 
shy  as  he  was  taciturn,  and  would  only  say  that 
whatever  the  padrone  pleased  would  surely  be 
most  acceptable  ;  so,  being  thrown  on  my  own 
resources,  I  suggested  a  pair  of  gold  earrings 
for  the  mother,  a  piece  of  cloth  to  make  a  holi- 
day suit  for  the  father,  and  a  necklace  for  Mad- 
dalena. To  each  of  these,  Jacopo  bent  his 
head,  with  a  pleased  '■grazie,  signore;'  and  to 
the  last  he  said,  '  La  sorella  will  keep  it  for  her 
wedding.' — '  Has  she  then  a  lover  ?'  I  asked.  He 
shook  his  head  again.  'Not  yet,'  he  replied; 
'  ma  vedremo  —  we  shall  see.' — '  And  Paolo,' 
I  said,  'where  is  he  now?' — 'At  sea,  signore, 
with  his  ship.' — 'And  where  is  his  ship  ?' — '  N^on 
50,  signore.'—'  To  what  port  was  she  bound  ?' — 
'  To  Smyrna,  signore,  and  the  Greek  Isles.' — 
'  You  never  hear  from  him  while  he  is  away  ?' — . 
'  Never,  signore.' — '  Surely  his  wife  is  some- 
times anxious  ?'  Jacopo  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
'  JE  buon  giovane^  said  he ;  '  the  Madonna  will 
watch  over  him,' 

"  By  this  time  we  had  come  upon  roads  that  I 
knew,  and  so  I  bade  Jacopo  good  night,  and  we 
parted  company. 

"The  next  day,  I  sailed  over  to  Naples, 
as  agreed ;  made  my  purchases,  spent  my  even- 
ing at  the  San  Carlo,  and  returned  to  Capri  just 
as  the  sun  was  rising  behind  Vesuvius.  That 
same  afternoon,  I  coasted  round  to  the  north- 
west of  the  island ;  cast  anchor  in  a  little  creek 
at  Point  Vitareto,  about  half  a  mile  below  Mad- 
dalena's  home ;  and  went  up  to  the  cottage  on 
rfoot.  I  found  Jacopo  there  b^ore  me,  tying  up 
the  vines  ;  and  Maddalena  sitting  in  the  porch, 
spinning,  singing  to  the  baby,  and  rocking  the 
cradle  with  her  foot.  She  rose  and  bade  me 
welcome,  fetched  a  wooden  chair  from  the  house, 
and  placed  before  me  a  plate  of  fresh  figs,  and  a 
small  flask  of  wine.  *  It  is  the  vino  Tiberiano, 
signore,'  said  she.  'The  wine  of  Tiberius!'  I 
repeated,  '  A  good  wine,  but  deserving  a  better 
name.'  She  looked  up  inquiringly.  '  Did  you 
never  hear  of  Tiberius,  who  lived  on  this  island 
in  the  ancient  times  ?'  I  asked.  '  Yes,  signore,' 
she  replied,  crossing  herself;  'he  was  a  magi- 
cian.'— '  Ay,  and  a  Pagan,'  added  Jacopo,  com- 
ing down  from  his  ladder  among  the  vines. 
'  He  built  twelve  palaces  here  by  enchantment ; 
but  they  were  all  destroyed  by  the  holy  Saint 
Constantine.' — '^  vero — e  verissimo,  signore,' 
said  Maddalena,  seeing  the  smile  which  I  could 
not  wholly  suppress  ;  '  one  may  see  the  ruins  in 
all  parts  of  Capri.' — 'I  have  seen  the  ruins, 
Maddalena,'  I  replied;  'but  Tiberius  was  no 
magician.  He  was  a  wicked  Emperor,  and  all 
his  palaces  were  razed  to  the  ground  by  his  suc- 
cessor.' At  this  moment,  my  sailor  came  up 
from  the  beach,  bringing  the  box  of  gifts,  and 
we  went  into  the  house  to  open  it.  The  sister- 
in-law  was  sitting  up  in  bed  to  receive  me,  and 
the  room,  as  usual  in  South-Italy,  when  a 
woman  is  recovering  from  her  confinement,  was 
fragrant  with  sweet  herbs.  First,  I  took  out  the 


140 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


earrings ;  then  a  mug  for  the  baby ;  then  the 
cloth  for  Paolo  ;  then  a  silver  watch  for  Jacopo  ; 
and,  lastly,  a  coral  necklace  for  Maddalena. 
You  would  have  thought,  Barbarina,  that  I  had 
given  them  the  sovereignty  of  the  island.  The 
young  mother  called  on  the  Madonna  and  all  the 
saints  to  bless  me.  Jacopo,  though  he  said 
little,  was  eloquent  in  gesticulation.  As  for 
Maddalena,  almost  childlike  in  her  joy,  she 
clapped  her  hands,  laughed,  danced,  hung  the 
necklace  on  the  baby's  little  neck,  and  finally 
ran  to  the  well,  like  a  young  water-nymph, 
to  see  how  it  looked  upon  her  own.  For  my 
part,  carina,  I  only  felt  ashamed  to  think  at  how 
little  cost  of  money  or  effort  I  had  made  these 
poor  souls  so  happy.  Anxious,  at  last,  to  put 
an  end  -to  their  thanks  and  praises,  I  proposed 
that  Maddalena  should  go  down  to  see  the 
yacht. 

"We  went  —  Maddalena  going  first,  rapidly 
and  lightly  as  an  island-born  Diana — down  the 
rock-hewn  steep,  and  along  the  narrow  path  of 
amber  strand  that  lay  between  the  precipice  and 
the  sea.  She  had  seen  the  yacht  often,  from 
afar  off;  but  had  never  yet  been  on  board.  She 
admired  every  thing — the  polished  deck ;  the 
brass-swivel  gun,  shining  hke  gold;  the  com- 
pass in  its  mahogany  shrine ;  the  dainty  little 
cabin,  with  its  chintz  hangings, '  its  mirror,  its 
pictures,  and  its  books.  All  was  beautiful,  all 
was  wonderful  in  her  eyes ;  and  she  would  have 
taken  off  her  shoes  at  the  cabin-door  if  I  had 
not  prevented  it.  My  book-case,  which,  like 
that  of  the  clerk  in  Chaucer,  stood  at  my  '  bed- 
des  hed,'  and  contained  about  as  many  volumes, 
surprised  her  more  than  all  the  rest.  *  Dio  P 
said  she,  to  Jacopo,  '  can  the  padrone  read  all 
these  ?' — '  Certo,''  replied  her  brother  ;  '  and  ten 
times  as  many.'  She  shook  her  head,  incredu- 
lously. *  What  can  they  tell  him  ?'  exclaimed 
she.  Jacopo  shrugged  his  shoulders ;  but  I 
came  to  his  assistance.  '  They  tell  me,  Madda-* 
lena,'  said  I,  '  of  all  kinds  of  strange  and  pre- 
cious things,  some  of  which  happened  hundreds 
of  years  ago,  and  some  of  which  are  happening 
every  day.  Here  is  a  book  that  tells  me  about 
Italy  in  the  time  when  all  men  were  pagans,  and 
no  one  had  heard  of  Christ  or  the  Madonna. 
Here  is  another  which  explains  about  the  stars, 
how  they  come  and  go  in  the  heavens,  how  far 
off  they  are,  and  what  are  their  appointed  uses. 
This  one  gives  an  account  of  all  the  seas  and 
cities,  islands,  mountains,  and  rivers  all  over  the 
face  of  the  earth.  This  is  poetry  —  not  such 
poetry  as  the  hymns  and  ballads  which  the  fish- 
ermen sing ;  but  long  histories  of  war  and  love, 
all  in  rhyme,  Hke  the  '  Rinaldo.' ' — Maddalena 
listened  eagerly,  devouring  each  volume  with 
her  eyes  as  I  took  it  out,  and  almost  holding 
her  breath  while  I  spoke.  '  La  guerra  e 
Vamore  /'  repeated  she.  '  How  beautiful  ! 
What  is  it  called,  signore  ?' — '  It  is  called  the 
Ilias  of  Homer,'  I  replied,  '  and  it  is  written  in 
Greek.' — 'Did  Homer  write  it?'  she  asked, 
quickly. —  'Yes,  Homer  wrote  it.' — 'In  Greek, 
signore  ?'  — '  Yes  ;  Homer  was  a  Greek  by 
birth.' — '  Then  perhaps  Paolo  will  see  him  ;  cJii 
lo  sa  r — I  laughed,  and  shook  my  head.  '  No, 
no,  Maddalena,'  I  said,  '  Paolo  will  not  see  him. 
Homer  has  been  dead  nearly  three  thousand 
years.'  She  clasped  her  hands,  and  her  dark 
eyes  dilated  with  wonder.  'Three  thousand 
years !'  she  murmured.     '  Madre  heata  !  three 


thousand  years  !'  And  presently,  when  we  were 
leaving  the  cabin,  I  saw  her  turn  back  to  the 
book-case,  and  touch  the  volume  timidly  with 
one  finger,  as  if  it  were  a  sacred  relic,  and  had 
some  virtue  in  it. 

"  After  this,  I  landed  now  and  then  at  Point 
Vitareto,  and  went  up  to  the  cottage  to  see 
Maddalena  and  her  brother's  wife.  The  affec- 
tion of  these  women  for  each  other,  and  for  the 
sailor  far  away  at  sea  ;  the  patriarchal  sim- 
plicity of  their  home ;  the  calm  sanctity  of  their 
lives  ;  the  antique  songs  which  they  sang  to  the 
baby  in  his  cradle ;  the  legends  which  they  re- 
peated with  the  credulity  of  children,  were  all, 
to  me,  sources  of  interest  and  pleasure.  Even 
their  household  occupations  charmed  my  imagi- 
nation, like  the  details  of  an  idyllic  poem.  The 
plying  of  the  distaff",  the  pruning  of  the  vines, 
the  salting  of  the  olive-harvest,  the  gathering  of 
the  honey,  the  preserving  of  the  figs  —  what 
were  these  but  commentaries  upon  Hesiod  and 
Virgil  ?  If  only  as  a  student  of  the  poets  and 
an  observer  of  manners,  I  loved  to  familiarize 
myself  with  this  pastoral  interior,  and  to  learn 
all  that  I  could  of  the  hopes,  fears,  and  narrow 
ambitions  of  its  inmates.  Sometimes,  however, 
we  talked  of  Paolo,  and  then  their  hearts  welled 
over  with  love  and  praise.  Sometimes  I  told 
them  tales  of  far-off  lands,  or  translated  into 
their  own  soft  vernacular  a  page  of  the  Geor- 
gics.  Then  would  Jacopo  pause  in  his  work, 
and  Maddalena's  distaff*  He  idle  on  her  knee ; 
and  when  I  left  off",  they  would  point  across  the 
bay  toward  Posilippo  and  the  tomb  of  Virgil, 
and  say,  '  Yonder  is  his  place  of  rest.' 

"  At  length  there  came  a  day  when  Jacopo 
informed  me,  not  without  a  certain  air  of  sub- 
dued exultation,  that  la  sorella  bad  just  been 
asked  in  marriage  by  Matteo  Pisani  of  Capri. 
*  Matteo  Pisani !'  I  repeated.  '  Not  the  inn- 
keeper, Jacopo  ?'  — '  Si,  signore,'  he  replied. 
'  Matteo  whom  you  saw  on  the  night  of  the 
baptism  of  little  Paolino.'  — '  But  he  is  old 
enough,'  said  I,  '  to  be  Maddalena's  father ! ' 
Jacopo  shrugged  his  shoulders.  '  He  is  rich, 
signore.'  I  shook  my  head.  '  Riches  alone  do 
not  make  a  marriage  happy,'  I  objected.  '  Does 
Maddalena  love  him  ?'  Jacopo  laughed.  '  Mat- 
teo is  a  good  man,'  said  he,  '  and  if  la  sorella 
likes  him  well  enough  to  marry  him,  the  love 
will  be  sure  to  follow.'  And  with  this  he  turned 
away,  and  said  no  more. 

"It  happened  that  this  conversation  took 
place  as  we  were  scudding  before  the  wind  on 
our  way  to  Salerno,  where  I  had  made  arrange- 
ments to  remain  for  some  days,  for  the  purpose 
of  sketching  that  part  of  the  coast.  During  all 
this  absence,  neither  my  pilot  nor  myself  recur- 
red to  the  subject  of  Maddalena's  betrothal,  and 
by  the  time  we  returned  to  Capri  I  had  almost 
forgotten  it.  Once  home  again,  I  found  my 
time  more  than  usually  occupied  ;  for  the  term 
of  months  for  which  I  had  hired  my  villa  was 
on  the  point  of  expiration,  and  I  had  made  up 
my  mind  to  go  to  Algiers  for  the  winter.  Busy, 
therefore,  in  packing  my  books  and  sketches, 
and  making  such  final  arrangements  as  not 
even  a  dweller  in  tents  like  myself  could  wholly 
escape,  I  allowed  nearly  another  week  to  elapse 
before  visiting  my  humble  friends  at  Vitareto. 
When  at  length  I  found  time  to  do  so,  it  was  to 
bid  them  farewell. 

"  The  afternoon  was  mild  and  delicious,  when 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


141 


I  walked  across  the  hights  toward  Jacopo's 
home.  It  was  the  third  week  in  October.  The 
yellow  vine-leaves  were  withering  fast  in  the 
grape-stripped  vineyards,  and  the  early  snow 
already  lay  in  faint  streaks  about  the  summit 
of  Mount  Solaro.  As  the  ground  rose,  Naples 
and  Ischia,  Vesuvius  with  its  pipme  of  smoke, 
anfl  the  blue  sea  flecked  with  sails,  came  into 
sight.  Half  way  to  Vitareto,  there  was  a  point 
whence  all  the  glorious  bay  might  be  seen  on  a 
day  as  clear  as  this.  A  stone  seat  and  a  soli- 
tary tree  marked  the  spot.  I  pressed  eagerly 
forward,  remembering  how  m&nj  and  many  a 
year  might  go  by  before  my  eyes  should  rest 
upon  that  sight  again.  As  I  drew  near  I  saw 
a  woman  sitting  on  the  bench,  with  her  face 
buried  in  her  hands.  At  the  sound  of  my  ap- 
proaching footsteps,  she  looked  up.  It  was 
Maddalena.  ^ 

"  '  Well  met,  Maddalena,'  said  I.  *I  was 
coming  to  see  you.' — She  blushed  ;  but  the  blush 
died  away,  and  left  her  very  pale,  '  Our  hearts 
always  bid  the  signore  welcome,'  she  replied. — 
'  I  was  also  coming,'  I  added,  '  to  say  farewell.' 

*  Alas !'  said  she, '  we  have  heard  it.  The  signore 
is  going  away.' — *  Yes,'  I  said,  regretfully ; '  I  am 
going  ;  but  I  am  sorry  to  leave  Capri.'  She  look- 
ed up  with  naive  wonder.  '  The  padrone  is 
master,'  said  she.     '  He  can  stay  if  he  chooses.' 

*  True,'  I  replied ;  '  but  I  can  also  return  when  I 
please  ;  and — and  I  have  something  of  the  Zin- 
garo  in  my  blood — I  can  not  help  wandering.  I 
am  going  to  Africa  for  the  winter.  Still,  I  should 
have  wished  to  stay,  Maddalena,  for  your  wed- 
ding.'— She  blushed  again,  more  faintly  than  be- 
fore, and  turned  still  paler  after.  '  I  hear  that 
it  is  a  fortunate  marriage,'  said  I,  hastily  disen- 
gaging a  small  ornament  from  my  watch-chain. 
'  You  must  accept  my  congratulations,  and  this 
little  remembrance  of  your  English  friend.' — 
She  murmured  some  scarcely  audible  thanks. 
I  looked  at  her  closely,  and  could  see  that 
she  had  been  lately  weeping.  Her  face,  too, 
looked  haggard,  and  her  hands  thin.  '  I  hope, 
Maddalena,'  said  I,  'that  you  may  be  happy.' — 
Her  lips  trembled;  but  she  made  no  reply. 
'  Marriage,'  I  continued  earnestly,  '  is  a  very  se- 
rious thing — almost  more  serious,  Maddalena, 
for  a  woman  than  for  a  man.  It  is  a  bondage 
for  life  ;  and  unless  it  be  a  bondage  of  love,  not 
all  the  golden  ducats  in  the  world  can  make  it 
happy.  I  hope  you  do  not  accept  Matteo  be- 
cause he  is  rich  ?' — '  No,  no,  signore,'  she  re- 
plied, turning  her  face  from  me. — '  Nor  in  obedi- 
ence only  to  the  wishes  of  your  family  ?'  She 
shook  her  head.  '  If  you  do  not  love  him,'  I  said, 
'  which  I  fear  may  be  the  case,  you  at  all  events 
respect  him,  Maddalena  ?  You  have  no  person- 
al objection  to  him  ?'  She  shook  her  head  again, 
with  something  like  a  suppressed  sob.  I  took 
her  hand.  It  was  cold  and  damp,  and  I  could 
feel  all  the  nerves  of  the  palm  vibrating  with 
agitation.  '  Cava  Maddalena,'  I  said  very  gently 
and  soothingly,  '  I  have  no  right — I  know  I  have 
no  right  to  question  you  thus  ;  but  I  can  not  bear 
to  think  that  you  are,  perhaps,  about  to  sacrifice 
your  whole  life  to  some  mistaken  sense  of  duty. 
Confide  in  me,  as  in  one  who  knows  the  world 
so  much  better  than  yourself;  and  be  assured 
that  I  will  spare  neither  money  nor  influence,  if 
money  or  influence  can  help  you.  Is  there — as 
I  can  not  help  thinking  there  may  be — some 


other  with  whom  you  believe  you  could  be  more 
happy  ?' — Maddalena  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands,   and  burst  into  an  agony  of  weeping. 

*  No   one  can  help  me !'  she  cried,  brokenly. 

*  No  one  can  help  me  !'  '  Hush,  Maddalena,'  I 
said.  'Do  not  weep — do  not  despair.  I  am 
your  true  friend.  I  offer  no  more  than  I  am 
ready  to  perform  ;  and  I  believe  that  I  can  help 
you.  Who  is  it  that  you  prefer  ?  If  there  are 
obstacles,  what  can  be  done  to  remove  them?' 
'  Nothing,  signore  !  nothing !' — *  Is  it  that  your 
lover  is  poor  ?'  I  asked.     She  shook  her  head. 

*  Is  it  that  Jacopo  dislikes  him  ?'  She  shook  her 
head  again.  '  Is  it  that  you  have  quarreled,  and 
parted,  and  are  too  proud  to  be  reconciled  ;  or 
is  it  that  he  is  no  longer  free  to  claim  you  ?' — 
Maddalena  started  to  her  feet,  and  for  the  first 
time  since  our  conversation  had  begun,  looked 
straight  at  me  through  her  tears.  '  Signore,'  she 
said,  rapidly  and  vehemently, '  ask  me  no  more. 
You  mean  kindly  ;  but  you  can  do  nothing,  noth- 
ing, nothing-!  If  my  heart  aches,  no  medicine 
can  cure  it!  My  lot  is  cast.  I  must  marry 
Matteo.  I  have  given  my  promise,  and  whether 
I  keep  or  break  it,  can  make  no  difference  now. 
He  is  rich.  He  is  our  landlord.  If  I  marry  him, 
I  can,  at  least,  do  something  to  help  my  brothers 
and  our  little  Paolino.  By  refusing  him,  I  could 
do  nothing  to  help  myself.  If  you  desire  to  be 
kind  to  me,  question  me  no  more,  and  forget  all 
about  me !  God  and  the  Madonna  bless  and 
keep  you,  dear  signore !  I  am  not  ungrateful, 
and — and  I  am  not  unhappy !' 

"  And  with  these  words,  Maddalena  seized  my 
hands,  covered  them  with  tears  and  kisses,  and 
fled  away  before  I  could  utter  a  word  in  reply. 
I  sat  for  a  long  time  on  the  stone  bench,  after 
she  had  disappeared,  troubled  and  perplexed  by 
what  had  taken  place.  I  was  sincerely  grieved 
for  her,  my  Barbara  ;  and  all  the  more  grieved 
because  I  could  see  no  way  to  serve  her.  The 
more  I  considered  what  she  had  said,  the  more 
I  became  convinced  that  it  was  now  my  duty  to 
interfere  no  farther.  I  had  sought  her  confi- 
dence, and  she  had  refused  it.  I  had  offered  my 
aid,  and  offered  it  in  vain.  If  neither  money 
nor  influence  could  avail  her,  there  remained  but 
one  conclusion.  Maddalena,  without  doubt,  loved 
a  man  who  was  already  married ;  and  in  this  case 
her  best  hope  lay  in  honest  Matteo.  What 
readier  cure,  after  all,  for  the  heart-ache,  than 
the  love  of  a  good  man,  the  cares  of  a  house- 
hold, and  the  duties  of  maternity?  As  I  sat 
and  pondered  thus,  the  sun  sank  lower  and  lower, 
till  it  was  too  late  for  me  to  go  on  to  Vitareto 
that  evening.  So  I  rose  and  retraced  my  steps, 
resolving  to  send  some  farewell  message  by  Ja- 
copo the  following  day. 

"The  rest  of  my  story,  carina,  may  be 
summed  up  in  a  few  words.  I  went  no  more  to 
Vitareto ;  and,  having  only  two  days  to  remain 
in  Capri,  I  discharged  Jacopo.  Having  made 
arrangements  to  dispose  of  my  little  yacht  and 
forward  my  superfluous  books  and  drawings  to 
England,  I  then  bade  farewell  to  the  pretty  vil- 
la ;  and  on  the  third  day  after  my  interview 
with  Maddalena,  slept  on  board  my  boat  for  the 
last  time,  and  steered  for  Naples.  I  had  now- 
only  my  one  sailor  to  navigate  the  yacht ;  but 
it  was  all  plain  sailing  enough,  so,  after  remain- 
ing on  deck  till  the  little  white  house  that  had 
been  my  home  for  so  many  months  was  carried 


142 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


out  of  sight  by  the  curve  of  the  shore,  I  went 
down  into  the  cabin.  At  the  cabin-door  I  met 
Tippoo,  with  a  strange  startled  look  upon  his 
face.  '  Sahib !'  he  said,  pointing  over  his 
shoulder.  '  Sahib  —  do  you  know  ?'  —  '  Do  I 
know  what  ?'  I  asked.  '  There,  Sahib  -  in  there  !' 
Puzzled  and  impatient,  I  pushed  past  him  into 
the  cabin,  and  found  —  Maddalena  !  ^addalena, 
who  fell  at  my  feet,  entreating  me*to  forgive 
her,  and  imploring  me  to  save  her ! 

"  I  am  almost  ashamed  to  confess  to  you, 
Barbara,  that  my  first  impulse  was  one  of  an- 
ger. I  felt  that,  having  offered  to  help  her 
when  I  could  have  done  so  without  serious  in- 
convenience, it  was  excessively  annoying  to  find 
her  claiming  my  protection  just  as  I  was  starting 
on  a  long  journey.  However,  I  raised  her  up, 
soothed  her  as  well  as  I  could,  and  learned,  to 
my  amazement  and  distress,  that  she  had  been 
married  to  Matteo  Pisani  the  day  before.  Once 
married,  her  friendly  indifference  changed,  to 
use  her  own  impassioned  expression,  to  an  un- 
conquerable personal  loathing.  FeeUng  that 
she  could  never  be  his  wife,  she  fled  from  his 
roof  on  her  wedding  night,  and  took  refuge  till 
daylight  in  a  little  oratory  on  Mount  Solaro. 
Returning  at  dawn  to  her  old  home,  she  found 
Jacopo  absent,  summoned  away  to  assist  Matteo 
in  the  search  for  herself,  and  her  sister-in-law 
in  the  deepest  trouble.  In  vain^he  represented 
her  aversion  toward  her  husband.  In  vain  she 
implored  her  sister's  mediation  and  sympathy. 
She  was  told,  and  with  bitter  truth,  that  she 
should  have  known  her  own  mind  while  there 
was  yet  time ;  that  now  her  only  course  was 
submissively  to  apologize  to  Matteo,  and  return 
to  his  roof  without  delay  ;  and  that  if  she  did 
not  do  so,  none  of  her  family  would  ever  speak 
to  her  again.  '  In  this  strait,  signore,'  said  Mad- 
dalena, '  what  could  I  do  but  fly  to  you  for  pro- 
tection ?  I  found  your  vessel  ready  to  start  — 
I  chose  a  moment  when  there  was  no  one  within 
sight  —  I  stole  on  board,  and  hid  myself  under 
your  bed,  till  I  knew  that  we  were  safely  at  sea. 
And  now  —  now  I  am  at  your  mercy  !  If  you 
take  me  back,  my  husband  and  Jacopo  will  kill 
me.  If  they  do  not,  I  shall  kill  myself,  sooner 
than  be  the  wife  of  a  man  whom  I  abhor.  You, 
and  you  only,  signore,  can  save  me  now !'  — 
Serious,  almost  tragic  as  the  situation  was,  I 
could  not  help  feeling  that  there  was  in  it  an 
element  of  the  ludicrous.  '  Good  God  !  Mad- 
dalena,' said  I,  '  it  is  all  well  enough  to  ask  me 
to  save  you  ;  but  what  am  I  to  do  with  you  ?'  — 
'  Let  me  be  your  slave,'  replied  she.  In  spite 
of  myself,  I  could  not  keep  from  smiling.  '  You 
foolish  little  girl,'  said  I,  '  what  do  I  want  with 
a  slave  ?  And  why  should  you  prefer  slavery  to 
a  comfortable  home  with  an  honest,  respectable 
husband,  like  Matteo  Pisani  ?  Come  now,  Mad- 
dalena, don't  you  think  you  have  been  some- 
what rash  and  romantic,  and  that  it  would  be 
better  for  us  to  turn  the  boat  about,  and  steer 
for   Capri  ?     I  will   do  my  best  to  make  your 

peace  with  Matteo,  and ' '  Enough,  signore  !' 

•she  exclaimed,  flushed,  and  trembling,  and  in- 
dignant. '  I  see  that  you  despise  me  !  Take 
me  back,  if  you  will.  Take  me  back,  and  aban- 
don me  to  my  fate.  I  deserve  your  scorn.'  I 
became  serious  in  an  instant.  '  Maddalena,' 
I  said,  '  I  no  more  despise  you  than  I  am  dis- 
posed to  abandon  you.     I  offered  you  my  help 


three  days  ago,  and  I  will  help  you  still.  Give  me 
a  few  moments  to  think  what  is  best  to  be  done ; 
and  believe  that,  whatever  the  difficulty  or  dan- 
ger, I  will,  by  the  help  of  Heaven,  save  you  if 
I  can.' 

"  With  this  I  went  on  deck,  and  looked  out 
ahead.  We  were,  as  nearly  as  possible,  half- 
way across  between  Capri  and  Naples,  and  the 
shores  of  the  little  island  were  already  indistinct 
in  the  distance.  I  went  up  to  my  sailor,  who 
was  steering.  'Tommaso,'  I  said,  'what  wind 
have  we  ?  It  seems  to  me  to  be  blowing  due 
west.'  '  Si,  signore  ;  due  west,'  replied  Tom- 
maso,  with  his  eye  on  the  compass.  I  took  a 
turn  or  two  on  deck,  and  came  back  again. 
*  You  are  not  a  married  man,  I  think,  Tom- 
maso  ?'  said  I.  He  looked  surprised  at  the 
question,  laughed  and  shook  his  head.  '  And 
you  have  no  particular  home-ties,  either — I 
mean  you  are  a  free  man  to  come  and  go  as  you 
please ;  is  it  not  so  ?'  '  St,  signore  ;  certo,  certo,'' 
replied  Tommaso.  I  took  another  turn ;  again 
came  back ;  laid  my  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and 
said,  '  Supposing  that  I  were  to  keep  the  yacht, 
after  all,  Tommaso,  and  change  the  whole  of 
my  plans,  would  you  stay  with  me  ?'  '  Gladly, 
signore.'  '  And  could  you,  do  you  think,  pilot 
the  boat  safely  as  far  as  Palermo,  without  put- 
ting into  Naples  at  all?'  'Yes,  signore.'  'Ai^e 
you  certain,  Tommaso  ?'  '  Quite  certain,  signore. 
It  is  all  open  sea,  and  my  whole  life  has  been 
spent  in  these  waters.'  '  Then  'bout  ship,  my 
man,  at  once,'  said  I,  '  and  steer  for  Palermo. 
There  we  shall  be  sure  to  pick  up  a  pilot ;  and 
we  can  go  on  to  Greece,  or  Constantinople,  or 
Grand  Cairo,  or  to  the  deuce,  if  we  choose !' 

"And  this,  Barbarina,  was  how  I  came  to 
know  poor  Maddalena,  and  how  I  made  myself 
responsible  for  her  protection.  I  took  her  first 
of  all  to  Palermo;  then  up  the  Adriatic  to 
Venice ;  and  from  Venice  to  Vienna,  where  I 
placed  her  in  a  private  family,  and  gave  her,  in 
accordance  with  her  own  desire,  every  facility 
for  the  improvement  of  her  mind.  She  had  ex- 
cellent abilities,  and  a  passion  for  knowledge  ; 
so  that  she  became  educated,  as  it  were,  by  a 
miracle.  At  the  end  of  three  years,  she  could 
not  only  read  and  write  her  own  language  with 
correctness,  but  had  made  good  progress  in 
English  as  well.  Since  then,  she  has  gone  on 
improving  year  after  year.  Her  happiness  i8 
bound  up,  so  to  speak,  in  her  favorite  authors ; 
and  her  whole  life  is  one  long  course  of  study. 
For  the  last  five  or  six  years,  she  has  lived  un- 
der my  roof  here,  at  Broomhill ;  occupying  two 
little  rooms  at  the  back  of  the  house ;  maintain- 
ing the  strictest  seclusion ;  knowing  no  one,  and 
known  of  none.  It  has  pleased  her,  poor  soul, 
to  constitute  herself  my  librarian.  She  loves,  in 
her  gratitude,  to  believe  herself  of  some  little 
service  to  her  benefactor ;  and  the  arrangement, 
classification,  and  cataloguing  of  the  books 
down-stairs  have  given  her  occupation  and 
amusement  together.  As  for  the  secret  door, 
my  Barbara,  it  has  only  been  so  disguised  since 
she  came  here.  It  was  originally  contrived  by 
my  grandfather  for  his  own  convenience,  and 
communicated  with  the  rooms  which  he  had  in 
occupation.  Those  rooms,  for  that  very  reason, 
I  assigned  to  Maddalena  ;  and  the  door  I  caused 
to  be  masked  by  shelves  of  mock  '  Acta  Sancto- 
rum,' partly  for  the  better  appearance  of  the 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


148 


library,  and  partly  for  Maddalena's  satisfaction. 
She  is  haunted  to  this  hour  by  a  morbid  fear  of 
discovery.  She  believes,  after  all  these  years, 
that  her  husband  or  her  brother,  will  some  day 
track  her  to  her  hiding-place ;  and  that  she  is, 
perhaps,  a  little  safer  in  having  a  concealed 
door  by  which  to  escape  to  her  apartments. 
She  dreads  every  strange  face — even  yours,  my 
wife  ;  and  would  have  kept  her  very  existence 
a  secret  from  you,  had  it  been  possible.  Now 
you  know  her  story,  and  my  share  in  it.  Was 
I  not  right  when  I  said  that,  having  heard 
it,  you  would  pity  her,  even  as  I  pity  her 
myself?" 

I  have  not  here  interrupted  Hugh's  narrative, 
as  I  continually  interrupted  it  at  the  time,  with 
questions,  and  anticipations  of  what  was  to 
come.  I  have  given  it  as  he  would  have  given 
it  to  a  less  impatient  listener;  and,  eve«'  so, 
feel  that  my  version  fails  to  do  his  story  justice. 
When  he  had  quite  finished,  he  took  me  in  his 
arms  and  asked  me  if  I  was  satisfied. 

Was  I  satisfied  ?  Yes — for  the  moment ;  and 
frankly  gave  him  the  assurance  for  which  he 
asked.  Listening  to  him,  looking  at  him,  how 
could  I  do  otherwise  than  accept  in  its  fullest 
sense  every  explanation  given  or  implied  ?  How 
could  I  pause  to  ask  myself  if,  when  all  looked 
fair  and  open,  there  were  any  flaw,  or  gloze,  or 
reservation  ?  I  did  not  pause,  I  believed.  It 
was,  therefore,  in  the  simplest  faith  that,  just  as 
we  were  parting,  I  said, 

"  Oh,  stop,  Hugh  !  One  thing  more  —  did 
you  never  find  out  who  it  was  that  poor  Madda- 
iena  loved,  after  all ;  and  why  she  could  not 
marry  him  ?" 

"  I  did,  my  darling,  and  a  hopeless  affair  it 
was.  She  loved  a  man  who  no  more  loved  her, 
or  thought  of  her,  than  you  love  or  think  of  the 
Grand-Duke  of  Zollenstrasse-am-Main." 

"  Poor,  poor  girl !  But  do  you  think,  Hugh, 
that  you  could  have  done  any  thing  if  she  had 
confided  in  you  that  day  when  you  met  her  on 
the  hights  ?     Do  you  think " 

"  My  child,  how  can  I  tell  ?  You  might  as 
well  ask  me  if  I  believe  that  Tasso  and  Leonora 
would  have  lived  happily  together  all  their  days 
in  the  bonds  of  holy  matrimony,  if  the  poet  had 
not  been  mad,  and  the  lady  a  duchess  !" 

"  Still,  if  Maddalena  could  have  procured  a 
divorce " 

"  Barbarina,"  interrupted  he,  laughing,  "  you 
are  fl  goose,  with  your  ifs  and  supposes !  If 
Queen  Cleopatra's  nose  had  been  an  inch 
shorter,  the  face  of  the  world  would  have  been 
changed.  We  have  that  foct  upon  the  authority 
of  Pascal.  Besides,  the  Holy  Roman  Catholic 
Church  couples  up  her  children  very  firmly  in- 
deed. I  could  more  easily  have  procured  a 
cardinal's  hat  for  myself,  than  a  divorce  for 
Maddalena." 


CHAPTER  LI. 

TOTAL    ECLIPSE. 

"  Total  eclipse  ^ 

Without  all  hope  of  day !" — Milton.    • 

The  eventful  night  came  at  last — the  night 
on  which  I  was  to  make  my  debdt  in  society.  It 
was  my  first  ball ;  excepting  only  the  memorable 


night  at  Broomhill,  years  ago — but  I  am  not, 
therefore,  going  to  describe  it.  In  brief,  it  was  a 
ball  like  every  other ;  crowded  and  stately,  with 
blaze  of  lights  and  blush  of  flowers,  with  rustle 
of  silk,  and  murmur  of  compliment,  and,  over 
all,  the  clash  and  clang  of  a  military  band. 
"  Every  ball,"  wrote  one  as  wise  as  he  was 
witty,  "  is  a  round ;  but  not  a  perpetual  round 
of  pleasure."  To  me  it  was  no  pleasure  at  all, 
l)ut  a  moral  penance.  I  was  the  heroine  of  the 
evening,  and  I  would  fain  have  been  unsought 
and  unobserved.  I  was  nervous ;  I  was  stared 
at ;  I  was  flattered  by  the  men  ;  I  was  criticis- 
ed by  the  women ;  •  and  I  went  through  more 
introductions  than  I  could  ever  hope  to  remem- 
ber. Happy  was  I  when,  having  taken  leave 
of  our  Boble  entertainers,  we  were  once  more 
driving  homeward. 

"  My  little  wife,"  said  Hugh,  circling  me  fond- 
ly with  his  arm.  "  My  little  wife,  who  has 
borne  herself  so  well  and  gracefully,  and  of 
whom  I  have  been  so  proud!" 

"  You  would  hardly  have  been  proud  of  me, 
Hugh,"  said  I,  "  if  you  had  known  how  frighten- 
ed I  was  the  whole  time." 

"  I  did  know  it,  carhsima^  and  thought  you 
went  bravely  through  the  ordeal  —  looking  so 
pretty,  and  so  pale,  too,  under  that  coronal  of 
diamonds!" 

"  It  is  very  heavy — it  hurts  my  forehead." 

"  What !  wearying  already  of  the  '  polished 
perturbation,'  and  sighing  for  the  '  homely 
biggin,'  my  Barbarina  ?  Tush !  these  are  the 
penalties  of  splendor." 

"  Say,  then,  the  penalties  of  a  penalty." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  seriously,  wife,  that 
you  did  not  enjoy  the  homage  lavished  upon 
your  little  self  this  evening  !" 

"  Seriously,  husband,  I  did  not." 

"  Nor  the  attentions  of  Lord  and  Lady  Bay- 
ham  ?" 

"  Not  in  the  least.  I  thought  him  very  dull 
and  pompous  ;  and  her  so  satirical,  that  I  dared 
not  open  my  lips  in  her  presence." 

"  Still,  my  darling,  you  are  but  mortal ;  and  I 
don't  believe  there  ever  lived  the  woman  who 
did  not  love  to  be  well  dressed  and  admired." 

"  I  love  to  be  well  dressed,  for  you  j  and  I 
love  to  be  admired,  hy  you — and  I  love  both  be- 
cause I  love  you.     There,  sir,  are  you  satisfied  ?" 

"  If  I  were  not  more  than  satisfied,"  replied 
he,  "I  should  deserve  to  have  you  carried  off 
from  my  arms  by  some  worthier  knight.  By 
the  way,  I  have  gleaned  one  wheat-ear  of  use- 
ful information  out  of  the  barren  stubble  of 
small-talk  this  evening.  Holford  tells  me  that 
Lord  Walthamstow's  library  has  come  to  the 
hammer,  and  will  be  on  sale  to-morrow  and  the 
four  following  days.  It  is  an  auction  that  I 
would  not  willingly  miss.  Will  you  come  with 
me,  Barbarina,  in  the  morning  ?" 

"  Where  will  it  be  held  ?" 

"  At  Christie  and  Manson's." 

"  What,  in  London  ?" 

"Unquestionably.  Where  else  would  you 
have  it  ?  We  should  try  to  get  our  old  rooms 
at  Claridge's,  and " 

"  No,  no,  Hugh — not  in  December,  thank  you. 
I  prefer  Broomhill  to  a  dreary  hotel,  where  I 
should  be  alone  all  day,  with  nothing  to  do  but 
watch  for  you  from  the  windows.  Mv^t  you  go 
to-morrow  ?" 


144 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


"  If  I  do  not  go  to-morrow,  my  darling,  I  may 
as  well  not  go  at  all ;  for  the  very  books  that  I 
should,  perhaps,  most  desire  to  purchase,  may 
be  the  first  oiFered." 

"  Then  why  go  at  all  ?  I  am  sure  we  have 
books  enough — more  than  you  or  I  will  ever 
live  to  read." 

"  Books  enough,  Barbarina  !  Can  a  hero  have 
glory  enough  ?  or  a  miser  gold  enough  ?  or  a  col- 
lector books  enough  ?  Why,  my  child,  there  is 
one  volume  in  the  Walthamstow  library  for 
which  I  would  go  to  Calcutta,  if  necessary  ;  an 
original  copy  of  Meninsky's  great  Oriental  Dic- 
tionary. It  is  a  very  scarce  book.  Shall  1  tell 
you  the  cause  of  its  rarity  ?" 

"  If  you  please,  Hugh,"  I  replied,  sleepily. 

"  Well,  then,  Meninsky  was  a  great^Oriental 
scholar,  who  lived  in  Vienna  toward  the  latter 
part  of  the  seventeenth  century.  This  diction- 
ary, in  four  folios,  was  the  result  of  seven  years' 
labor  and  the  studies  of  a  life.  In  1683,  Vienna 
was  besieged  by  the  Turks.  A  bomb  burst  upon 
Meninsky's  house.  Nearly  the  whole  edition 
of  the  Dictionary  was  consumed ;  the  very  types 
from  which  it  had  been  printed  were  destroyed ; 
and  of  the  few  copies  which  remain  scattered 
through  Europe,  scarcely  one  may  be  found  which 
is  not  either  blistered  by  the  fire,  or  stained  by 
the  water  with  which  the  flames  were  extin- 
guished. Now,  for  a  dabbler  in  all  kinds  of 
tongues,  like  myself,  that  book  will  be " 

I  heard  no  more.  Meninsky  and  his  diction- 
ary, Vienna  and  the  Turks,  seemed  to  shift  con- 
fusedly by,  in  a  stream  of  unmeaning  phrases ; 
and  when  I  next  opened  my  eyes,  it  was  to  see 
Tippoo's  olive  face  at  the  carriage-door,  and  the 
lighted- hall  beyond. 

Wearied  out  with  fatigue  and  excitement,  I 
went  up  at  once  to  my  dressing-room,  whither 
my  husband  presently  followed  me. 

"I  have  come,  my  darling,"  said  he,  "to  say 
good-night,  and  implore  you  to  go  to  bed  as 
quickly  as  possible.  For  myself,  I  shall  be  late, 
for  I  have  several  letters  to  write.". 

"  Letters?"  I  repeated.  "  Why,  it  is  already 
two  o'clock !" 

"  I  know  it ;  but  having  to  start  by  the  early 
train,  and  be  at  the  rooms  by  the  time  the  sale 
commences,  I  must  write  now,  or  wait  till  to- 
morrow evening.  You  see,  my  love,  I  go  so  sel- 
dom to  town,  that  I  am  compelled  to  make  the 
most  of  my  short  visits  ;  and  by  writing  now  to 
my  lawyer,  my  tailor,  and  such  other  persons  as 
I  may  desire  to  see  while  in  London,  I  save  sev- 
eral posts,  and  provide  for  my  more  speedy  re- 
turn." 

"  And  when  will  that  be,  husband  ?" 

"  Perhaps  the  day  after  to-morrow ;  but  I  shall 
know  better  when  I  have  seen  the  catalogue,  and 
learned  on  what  days  the  various  books  will  be 
sold." 

"  Which  means,  I  suppose,  that  you  may  pos- 
sibly be  away  till  Saturday  ?" 

"  Possibly  ;  but  not  probably." 

"  Oh,  Hugh,  what  a  long  time  !  Five  days  ! 
— five  dull,  dreary,  miserable  days  ;  and  all  for 
the  sake  of  a  stupid  Oriental  dictionary  !" 

"  What  an  illogical  Barbara !  In  the  first 
place,  I  do  not  go  '  all  for  the  sake  of  a  stupid 
Oriental  dictionary,'  because  that  book  is  only 
one  among  many  which  I  should  wish  to  secure. 
In  the  second  place,  the  dictionary  is  one  of  the 


noblest  works  ever  undertaken  by  a  single  labor- 
er. In  the  third  place,  it  is  unlikely  that  the 
best  lots  should  be  left  to  the  last,  or  that  I 
should  need  to  remain  away  later  than  Thursday. 
In  the  fourth  place " 

I  put  my  fingers  to  my  ears,  and  refused  to 
hear  another  syllable. 

"Enough  !"  I  cried  pettishly.  "If  you  had 
been  Orpheus,  and  I  Eurydice,  you  would  have 
talked  Pluto  into  compliance  without  help  of 
song  or  lyre.  Go  write  your  letters,  Hugh,  and 
try  to  snatch,  at  least,  a  couple  of  hours'  rest 
before  starting.'' 

He  laughed,  and  pulled  my  ear. 

"  I  forgot  to  mention,"  said  he,  "  that  there 
are  some  magnificent  'picture-books,'  in  the 
Walthamstow  collection :  —  fac-similes  of  the 
drawings  of  Raffaelle  and  Michael  Angelo ;  en- 
gravings after  Leonardo,  Veronese,  and  Titian ; 
to  say  nothing  of  a  complete  set  of  Piranesi's 
Roman  Antiquities." 

"  Oh,  Hugh !" 

"But  they  are  sure  to  fetch  a  large  price. 
Good  works  of  art  always  do." 

My  enthusiasm  went  down  to  zero. 

"  Besides,"  added  he,  maliciously,  "  they  wiU 
undoubtedly  reserve  the  prints  till  the  books  are 
sold ;  and  by  that  time  I  shall  have  returned 
home  again." 

"  Hugh,  you  are  the  most  tormenting,  tire- 
some, tantalizing " 

— "  Indulgent,  delightful,  and  admirable  hus- 
band upon  earth  !"  interpolated  he.  "  Eh  bien, 
petite,  nous  ferons  notre  possible.  I  shall  see 
to  what  price  these  things  are  likely  to  amount ; 
and  if  I  ruin  myself,  we  will  sell  the  family  dia- 
monds. Now,  good  night,  my  dear  love — good 
night,  sweet  dreams,  and  happy  waking." 

And  with  this,  and  a  kiss,  he  left  me. 

The  ball-dress  thrown  aside,  and  the  "  warmed 
jewels"  all  unclasped  and  laid  in  their  velvet 
cases,  I  then  dismissed  my  maid,  and  sat  by  the 
fire  for  some  time,  in  a  delicious  idleness.  I  was 
very  happy,  and  dreamily  conscious  of  my  hap- 
piness. Every  uneasy  doubt  that  had  of  late 
been  knocking  at  my  heart  seemed  laid  at  rest ; 
every  perplexing  trifle,  forgotten.  I  tried  to 
think  of  the  old  time  at  Zollenstrasse,  and  to  com- 
pare the  dear  present  with  that  past  which  al- 
ready seemed  so  far  away  in  the  distance  ;  but 
my  eyes  closed,  and  my  thoughts  wandered,  and 
I  sank  away  to  sleep. 

By  and  by,  after  what  seemed  like  the  inter- 
val of  only  a  few  minutes,  I  awoke.  Aw#ke  to 
find  the  fire  quite  out,  the  lamp  dim,  and  my- 
self ice-cold  from  head  to  foot,  I  sat  up,  shiver- 
ing. My  first  thought  was  to  hasten  to  bed,  lest 
Hugh  should  come  and  find  me  waking.  I  next 
looked  at  my  watch.  It  was  half-past  four  o'clock. 
Half-past  four  already,  and  Hugh  still  writing ! 
Naughty  Hugh,  from  whom  I  had  parted  more 
than  two  hours  ago,  and  who  would  have  to 
leave  the  house,  at  latest,  by  seven  !  I  rose ; 
exchanged  my  slight  dressing-gown  for  a  mantle 
lined  with  furs ;  lit  a  small  Roman  hand-lamp  ; 
peeped  into  his  vacant  dressing-room  as  I  passed ; 
and  went  at  once  to  seek  and  summon  him. 

In^prder  to  go  from  our  sleeping-room  to  the 
turret-chamber,  I  had  to  traverse  a  corridor 
extending  the  whole  length  of  one  front  of  the 
house.  All  was  very  dark  and  still.  My  little 
lamp  shot  a  feeble  glimmer  on  each  closed  door 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY 


145 


that  I  passed.  My  shadow  stalked  awfully 
beside  me.  The  very  rustling  of  my  garments 
had  a  ghostly  sound.  At  the  top  of  the  great 
well-staircase  I  looked  away  and  shuddered, 
remembering  the  shape  that  I  saw,  or  fancied  I 
saw,  gliding  down  the  darkness,  the  first  night 
of  my  coming  home.  Once  past  this  dreaded 
point,  I  went  on  more  bravely  and  reached  the 
door  of  the  turret-chamber.  Before  lifting  the 
inner  curtain,  I  hesitated. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  I  heard  voices. 

I  held  my  breath — I  advanced  a  step — I 
paused. 

*■'' Hugo — Hugo  mio''^ — these  were  the  words 
I  heard — ^^guardami — look  at  me,  listen  to  me, 
for  a  moment  I" 

^'Fazienza,  caraj'  rephed  my  husband,  ab- 
stractedly. 

"  Pazienza  /"  repeated  the  other.  "  Alas !  is 
it  not  always  pazienza  ?  What  is  my  HTe  but 
one  long  patience  ?" 

I  had  heard  the  scratching  of  his  pen.  I  now 
heard  it  laid  aside. 

"  My  poor  Maddalena !"  said  he. 

Si — povera  Maddalena,^^  she  echoed,  with  a 
heavy  sigh. 

"You  look  very  pale  to-night,"  said  he. 
"  Are  you  tired  ?" 

"  Of  my  existence — yes." 

"  Alas !  Maddalena,  I  know  how  weary  it  must 
be.     And  then  I  can  so  seldom  see  you." 

"That  is  the  worst — that  is  the  worst!" 
replied  she,  eagerly.  "  If  I  could  speak  to  you 
onpe  or  twice  in  each  long  day — touch  your 
hand  or  your  hair,  thus — feel  the  sunshine  of 
your  eyes  upon  me,  I  should  be  almost  happy. 
You  do  not  know  how  I  pine,  sometimes,  for 
the  tones  of  your  voice,  Hugo.  You  do  not 
know  how  often  I  creep  out  at  dusk,  to  listen  to 
them." 

"But,  cara,"  said  Hugh,  "it  is  not  well  that 
you  should  haunt  about  the  house  in  such 
ghostly  fashion,  for  fear " 

"For  fear  that  I  should  meet  Tier?"  inter- 
rupted Maddalena.  "  No— no,  I  am  careful.  I 
only  venture  near  when  you  are  dining  or 
reading.     There  is  no  danger." 

"  You  can  not  tell.     Accident  might " 

"Never.  I  have  seen  her  once,  face  to  face. 
I  would  die,  sooner  than  meet  her  so  again." 

She  had  seen  me  once  ?  My  heart  was  beat- 
ing so  heavily  that  I  almost  thought  they  must 
hear  it.  I  blew  out  my  lamp,  advanced  a  step, 
and  drew  back  a  corner  of  the  curtain.  It  was 
as  I  had  already  suspected.  Maddalena  and  the 
lady  in  the  woods  were  one  and  the  same. 
Hugh  was  sitting  at  his  desk,  with  his  head 
resting  on  his  hand.  Maddalena  was  kneeling 
beside  him,  with  just  the  same  look  of  defiance 
on  her  pale  face  that  I  saw  upon  it  first. 

In  the  same  moment  the  look  faded  and  the 
face  became  gentle. 

"And  yet,  Hugo  mio,^^  a&id  she,  "I  do  not 
hate  her.  I — I  have  even  tried  to  love  the 
thought  of  her,  for  thy  sake." 

"  You  would  love  herself,  if  you  knew  her," 
said  my  husband,  quickly. 

"  She  is  very  young,  and  fair,  and  true-look- 
ing," replied  Maddalena.  "  I  am  glad  she  is  so 
fair,  for  thee."  , 

"  She  is  as  true  as  she  looks,"  said  Hugh. 
"She  knows  all  your  story  now — at  least,  as 
J 


much  of  it  as  I  could  tell  her — and  if  you  would 
only  see  her " 

"  See  her !"  interrupted  the  Italian,  with  a 
vehement  gesture.  "  Are  you  mad  to  ask  it  ? 
See  her — the  woman  who  bears  your  name  ? — 
who  sleeps  every  night  in  your  arms  ?  — 
who,  perhaps,  even  now,  bears  a  child  of  yours 
in  her  bosom  ?  Whilst  I — Dio  I  how  tame  a 
wretch  you  must  think  me  1" 

"  Maddalena " 

"  The  light  in  my  eyes  would  with'er  her — 
the  breath  of  my  lips  would  poison  her  !"  con- 
tinued she,  impetuously.  Then,  suddenly  check- 
ing herself,  "  Pardon,  pardon,"  she  cried,  "  I  do 
not  mean  to  vex  thee,  Hugo !  Thou  knowest 
how  gentle  I  have  been — how  patient — how 
obedient !  Thou  knowest  how  I  have  kept  my 
word  to  thee !" 

"  Yes,  yes,  poverina  ;  I  know  it." 

Maddalena  took  his  disengaged  hand  and 
kissed  it,  and  laid  her  cheek  caressingly  upon  it. 

"  What  do  I  live  for,  idol  mio"  murmured 
she,  "  if  not  to  obey  thee  ?  Why  do  I  drag  on 
this  weary  chain  of  years,  unless  to  dedicate 
each  day  and  hour  to  thy  service  ?  And  yet,  I 
sometimes  weep  because  I  can  do  nothing  for 
thee.  Dost  thou  remember  the  time,  Hugo, 
when  I  used  to  mend  thy  gloves  ?  It  was  long, 
long  ago.  It  made  me  very  happy.  I  have  not 
even  that  happiness  now.  Dost  thou  remember 
a  little  purse  which  thou  hadst  thrown  away  one 
day,  and  I  asked  for  it  ?  See — here  it  is,  all 
worn  with  my  kisses.     Ah,  do  I  not  love  thee  ?" 

Standing  there,  cold  and  trembling,  with  that 
horrible  sensation  of  helplessness  that  one  has 
in  a  dream,  I  saw  my  husband  cover  his  eyes 
with  his  hand — ^heard  him  reply,  in  a  voipe 
altered  by  emotion : 

"/Si,  si,  Maddalena — turn) ami.'''' 

"  Could  any  one  love  thee  better  ?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  Could  any  one — any  one,  Hugo,  love  thee 
so  well  ?  Could  she  give  thee  up  as  I  have  done  ? 
Could  she  sleep  under  the  same  roof,  knowing 
another  in  her  place,  as  I  do  ?  Could  she  live, 
banished  as  I  am,  and  yet  love  thee  as  I  love 
thee,  utterly  and  blindly  ?" 

"  No — no,  impossible  !" 

"  And  yet  you  avoid  me !  Nay,  do  not  shake 
your  head ;  for  it  is  true.  You  keep  out  with 
your  dogs  and  your  gun,  day  after  day,  and 
never  seek  to  see  me  of  your  own  will.  Is  it 
that  you  fear  my  reproaehes  ?  You  need  not ; 
for  I  never  even  think  blamefuUy  of  you,  now. 
Is  it  that  you  shrink  from  the  sight  of  my  sor- 
row ?  You  need  not ;  for,  when  I  see  you,  I 
am  happy.  Are  you  not  my  king  and  my  life  ? 
Is  not  one  such  hour  as  this,  my  recompense  for 
weeks  of  suffering  ?" 

"  Maddalena,  Maddalena,  you  torture  me  !" 
cried  Hugh,  brokenly.  "  When  I  think  of  thee, 
and  of  all  the  misery  I  have  caused  thee,  I  hate 
myself!" 

"Nay,  thou  shalt  not  hate  what  I  adore,"  said 
Maddalena,  with  a  piteous  smile. 

Hugh  laid  his  head  down  upon  his  desk,  and 
covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

"  Hugo,"  she  faltered  ;  "  Hugo  mio,  there  is 
one  thing — one  little  thing,  which  thou  couldst 
do,  my  love,  to  make  me  very  happy." 

"  Then,  in  God's  name,  let  me  do  it." 

"Dare  I  ask  it?" 


146 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


"  Yes,  if— if— what  is  it?" 

"  Only  this — only  this," — and  I  saw  her  throw 
her  arms  passionately  about  him,  and  press  her 
head  against  his  shoulder — "call  me  once — but 
once — by  my  old  name.  Let  me,  oh  !  let  me 
hear  it,  even  though  it  be  for  the  last  time  !" 

He  lifted  his  pale  face  from  the  desk,  and 
took  her  head  in  his  two  hands.  My  heart  stood 
still.  I  felt  as  if  it  were  my  sentence  that  he  was 
going  to  utter. 

He  bent  forward — his  lips  moved — he  whis- 
pered, "  Sjposa  mia .?" 


CHAPTER  LII. 

I  WEARY   AND   HEAVY-LADEN. 

His  wife ! 

He  had  called  her  his  wife — I  had  heard  it — 
and  I  lived.  I  remember  wondering,  vaguely, 
how  it  was  that  the  words  had  not  killed  me 
where  I  stood.  But  they  did  not.  They  only 
paralyzed  me,  brain  and  body,  and  left  me  scarce- 
ly conscious  of  the  blow  by  which  I  had  been 
crushed.  I  havfe  no  distinct  recollection  of  any 
thing  that  followed.  I  saw  their  lips  move  in 
speech,  but  the  words  had  no  sense  for  me.  I 
saw  Hugh  resume  his  writing,  and  Maddalena 
trim  the  lamp,  without  at  the  time  deriving  any 
kind  of  mental  impression  from  what  passed,  or  be- 
ing sensible  that  their  conversation  was  ended.  I 
can  form  no  conceptions  of  how  long  I  staid 
there  ;  or  how  I  came  to  find  myself,  by  and  by, 
in  my  own  room,  standing  before  the  empty 
grate.  Here,  for  the  first  time,  a  wondering 
consciousness  of  misery  dawned  upon  me.  I  be- 
gan to  remember,  word  by  word,  look  by  look, 
gesture  by  gesture,  all  the  fatal  evidence  that 
had  just  been  brought  before  me.  I  began  to_ 
comprehend  that  Hugh  had  deceived  me  with  a 
false  story — that  two  words  had  changed  all  my 
past  and  all  my  future — that  my  world  had  sud- 
denly became  a  chaos  of  ruin,  and  that  I  had 
better  have  died  than  survived  it. 

The  room  was  almost  dark.  The  lamp  which 
I  had  left  flickering  had  long  since  gone  out ;  and 
only  a  faint  reflex  of  the  outer  starlight  strug- 
gled through  the  blinds. 

Cold  and  dark  as  it  was,  I  crept  to  bed  with- 
out relighting  the  lamp — a  statue  of  ice  with  a 
brain  of  fire.  The  reaction  had  come  now.  My 
head  burned  ;  my  temples  throbbed  ;  fears,  pos- 
sibilities, retrospections,  thronged  and  surged 
upon  me,  like  the  waves  of  a  tumultuous  sea. 
I  could  not  think ;  for  I  had  no  power  to  arrest 
my  thoughts.  They  racked  me,  tossed  me  to 
and  fro,  mastered,  and  bewildered  me.  .  I  could 
weigh  nothing,  compare  nothing.  I  only  felt 
that  I  was  wrecked  and  heart-broken — that  he 
called  another.  Wife — that  he  was  no  longer  my 
own — that  I  was  alone  in  the  wide  world — alone 
for  evermore  ! 

Some  time  had  gone  by  thus — perhaps  hours  ; 
perhaps  minutes — when  I  heard  a  cautious  foot- 
step in  the  corridor,  and  a  hand  at'  the  door.  I 
buried  my  face  in  the  pillow,  and  feigned  sleep. 
He  came  in  very  gently.  I  heard  him  set  his 
candle  down  upon  the  table  and  cross  to  the 
foot  of  the  bed,  where  he  stood  some  moments 
without  moving.  It  then  seemed  to  me  that  he 
went  back,  drew  a  chair  to  the  table,  and  took 
something  from  his  pocket.      Once  or  twice, 


during  the  silence  that  followed,  I  distinguished 
the  rustling  of  paper.  Presently  he  moved 
again,  very  cautiously;  and  I  distinctly  heard 
him  fold  the  paper  over  and  over.  He  was 
writing  to  me — I  knew  it  as  well  as  if  I  had 
been  at  his  shoulder — writing  to  bid  me  farewell, 
because  he  would  not  awake  me  !  I  felt  as  if 
my  senses  were  leaving  me.  I  bit  the  pillow  in 
my  agony  of  anguish ;  and  felt  my  heart  con- 
tract as  if  grasped  by  an  iron  hand. 

Then  he  came  back  to  the  bed  ;  laid  the  note 
beside  me  ;  bent  over  me  silently.  I  felt  the  soft 
incense  of  his  breath  upon  my  neck — I  heard 
him  murmur  my  name  fondly  to  himself — I  knew 
what  a  loving  light  was  in  his  eyes  as  he  looked 
down  upon  me.  Then  he  lifted  a  stray  curl  from 
the  pillow,  pressed  it  to  his  lips,^  lingered,  sighed, 
and  went  away. 

For  one  moment — one  wild,  delirious  moment 
I  felt  as  if  I  must  call  him  back,  open  my  arms  • 
and  my  heart  to  him,  forgive  all,  and  weep  oui 
my  grief  on  his  bosom.  But  the  words  "  Sposo, 
mia,''''  started  up  before  me  in  letters  of  flame. 
The  desperate  question,  *'  What  am  I  to  this  man, 
if  another  is  his  wife  ?"  forced  itself  upon  me 
with  pitiless  rigor.  I  crushed  the  impulse  down 
— I  let  the  moment  passJ     He  was  gone. 

Then  a  deadly,  sickening,  stifling  sensation 
rushed  suddenly  upon  me.  I  tried  to  sit  up  in 
the  bed  ;  but  it  seemed  to  sink  away  beneath  me. 
I  fainted. 


I  recovered  my  consciousness  gradually  and 
painfully.  I  think  I  must  have  lain  a  long  time, 
for  when  I  again  opened  my  eyes,  it  was  daylight. 
0  God  !  was  I  mad,  or  was  it  all  a  wicked 
dream  ?  My  eyes  fell  upon  the  note  which  he 
had  left  on  the  pillow.  I  recoiled,  as  if  I  had 
been  stung  ;  for  it  was  directed  in  pencil,  "  To 
myw'ifey  His  wife?  What  wife  ?  Not  I!  not 
I !  Another  claimed  that  title — it  was  her  "  old 
name;"  whilst  I — oh  shame  and  sorrow!  I 
was  only  his  mistress. 

I  had  but  one  thought  now ;  one  insane,  des- 
perate, overruling  thought — flight. 

Yes ;  flight.  I  felt  that  I  must  go — that  I 
could  not  sleep  another  night  under  his  roof — 
that  I  never  dare  look  upon  his  face  again.  I 
scarcely  asked  myself  whither  I  should  turn.  I 
neither  knew  nor  cared.  Anywhere,  so  that  it 
were  but  far,  far  away,  where  none  who  had  ever 
known  me  should  witness  my  misery  ! 

This  resolve  once  taken,  I  became  possessed 
by  a  feverish  haste  which  brooked  no  delay,  and 
hurried  me  from  step  to  step,  from  project  to 
project,  with  an  energy  of  will  that,  for  the  time, 
supplied  the  place  of  physical  strength.  I  rose, 
weak  and  trembling,  and  dress'ed  myself  that 
cold  December  morning,  without  any  thought  of 
those  luxuries  of  the  toilette  to  which  I  had  of 
late  been  accustomed.  While  I  was  dressing, 
the  thought  of  my  poor  old  fiiithful  nurse  flashed 
across  my  mind,  and  I  determined,  if  she  would 
go,  to  take  her  with  me.  Desperate  as  I  was, 
the  prospect  of  being  utterly  alone  in  my  flight 
appalled  me.  As  for  my  father,  or  my  sister,  or 
Mrs.  Sandyshaft,  I  would  sooner  have  died  than 
seek  a  refuge  with  either.  Their  pity  would  have 
driven  me  mad. 

I  rang  for  my  maid,  who  was  amazed  to  see 
me  up.     From  her  I  learned  that  Hugh  had  left 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


147 


the  house  at  seven,  taking  Tippoo  with  him.  It 
was  already  half-past  eight  o'clock.  The  next 
direct  train  left,  I  knew,  at  half-past  one  ;  there- 
fore I  had  four  hours  before  me.  I  desired  the 
girl  immediately  to  pack  my  smallest  portman- 
teau, and  said  that  I  was  going  to  London. 

"  To  London,  ma'am — to-day  ?"  faltered  she. 
"  You — you  look  so  very  tired — more  fit  to  be  in 
bed  than  to  take  a  journey." 

I  glanced  at  the  glass,  and  saw  a  haggard, 
white-lipped  shadow  of  myself.  I  tried  to  smile, 
and  answer  carelessly. 

"  I  am  not  used  to  balls  and  late  hours,  Ann," 
I  replied.  "  I  think  I  shall  never  go  to  another 
large  party." 

*'  What  would  you  please  to  have  packed, 
ma'am  ?"  said  Ann,  still  looking  at  me  somewhat 
anxiously. 

"Only  necessaries — no  laces,  no  jewelry. 
Nothing  but  some  underclothing  and  one  dress ; 
the  darkest  and  plainest  I  have." 

"  That  will  be  your  brown  silk,  ma'am.  Noth- 
ing else  ?" 

"  Yes — my  case  of  colors." 

"  And  shall  you  require  me  to  go  with  you, 
ma'am  ?" 

"  No  ;  I  go  alone.  I  may,  perhaps,  take  Mrs. 
Beever  with  me.  I  am  now  going  across  the 
park,  to  ask  her  about  it." 

Ann  looked  more  surprised  than  before. 

"  Not  without  your  breakfast,  ma'am  ?"  said 
she,  seeing  me  with  ray  bonnet  in  my  hand. 
"  May  I  not  bring  you  a  cup  of  coffee  first  ?  In- 
deed, you  should  not  go  out  this  bitter  morning 
without  it." 

I  told  her  she  might  bring  it,  and  when  she 
was  gone,  swept  the  jewels  that  were  lying 
about  into  my  jewel-case,  stripped  the  rings 
from  my  fingers,  took  out  the  brooch  with 
which  I  had  mechanically  fastened  my  collar, 
and  locked  them  all  in — all,  except  my  wedding 
ring.  I  could  not  part  from  that.  Mockery  as 
it  was,  I  felt  I  mitst  keep  it. 

In  a  few  minutes  more,  I  was  hurrying  across 
the  park.  The  day  was  dull  and  intensely  cold ; 
but  I  went  forward  like  one  under  the  influence 
of  opium,  heeding  neither  the  moaning  wind 
nor  the  wet  grass  about  my  feet.  I  should 
scarcely  have  hesitated  in  my  path  had  a  thun- 
derstorm been  raging.  Arrived  at  the  cottage, 
I  went  in  without "  knocking,  and  found  my  old 
nurse  ironing  linen. 

"Goody,"  I  said,  abruptly;  "will  you  leave 
all  this,  and  come  with  me?  I  am  going 
away." 

She  looked  at  me,  turned  deathly  white,  and 
sank  into  a  chair. 
.  "Dear  God!"   stammered  she,    "what    has 
happened  ?"  ♦ 

"  Great  wrong  and  sorrow,"  I  replied.  "  I 
am  leaving  my — Mr.  Farquhar,  forever.  Will 
you  come  with  me  ?" 

She  wrung  her  hands,  and  stared  at  me  pite- 
ously. 

"  Yes,  yes  —  God  love  you,  yes,  my  poor 
lamb  !"  she  cried.     "  Where  will  you  go  ?" 

"I#  don't  know.  Somewhere  abroad,  far 
away." 

"  And  when,  my  darling — when?" 

"  To-day—at  once." 

The  old  woman  clasped  her  head  with  both 
hands,  utterly  bewildered. 


"To-day!"  she  repeated.  "Mercy!  that's 
sudden.'' 

"  Yes,  yes — today,"  I  replied,  impatiently. 
"  Every  hour  that  I  linger  here,  is  torture  to 
me." 

I  wanted  to  be  gone  without  delay.  I  felt  as 
if  the  loss  of  every  minute  were  irreparable.  I 
would  have  set  off  for  London,  walking,  by  the 
high  road,  sooner  than  wait  for  the  train,  if  she 
had  proposed  it. 

"  Oh,  that  it  should  all  end  like  this !"  moan- 
ed she,  rocking  herself  to  and  fro.  "  My  little 
lamb,  that  I  nursed  on  my  knees  so  often  ! 
Well,  well,  my  poor  rags  are  soon  put  together 

^What  will  the  master  say?      And  Miss 

Hilda,  too  !  Oh,  dear  !  oh,  dear !  we  are  here 
to-day  and  gone  to-morrow.  Where  is  he,  my 
darling  ?" 

"Gone." 

"He'll  support  you  in  comfort,  my  deary, 
anyhow  ?' 

"  I  would  not  accept  a  farthing  from  him,  if  I 
starved!"  I  cried,  fiercely.  "I  have  kept 
nothing  of  his — not  a  book,  not  a  jewel.  I  can 
support  myself,  Goody,  and  you  too." 

"  Well,  well,  deary,  there's  Mrs.  Sandyshaft — 
she  won't  let  you^ " 

"  Mrs.  Sandyshaft  knows  nothing — never  will 
know  any  thing  from  me,"  I  interrupted.  "  All 
I  want  is  to  hide  myself  far  away,  where  none  of 
them  will  ever  see  me,  or  hear  of  me,  again. 
Don't  ask  me  why.  You  shall  know  all,  by  and 
by.  I  have  been  cruelly  deceived  and  wronged 
— there,  not  a  word.  Make  haste,  for  God's 
sake,  and  let  us  be  gone." 

The  old  woman  stood  up  mechanically,  and 
began  folding  the  linen  that  lay  upon  the  table. 
All  at  once  she  stopped,  and  said : — 

"But,  my  deary,  have  you  any  money  ?" 

Money  ?  In  my  distress  and  eagerness,  I  had 
never  thought  of  it !  I  had  none  of  my  own ; 
and  I  would  not  have  taken  his  to  save  myself 
from  beggary.  I  felt  as  if  a  thunderbolt  had 
fallen  at  my  feet. 

"  Not  a  farthing,"  I  replied. 

Goody  shook  her  head  sorrowfully. 

"  Alas,  and  alas  !  my  lamb,"  said  she,  "  where 
can  we  go,  and  what  can  we  do,  without  it  ?  I 
— I  have  a  little  bit  of  money  laid  by,  myself; 
but  it's  only  a  bit,  and  when  that's  gone " 

"  When  it's  gone,  I  can  earn  more,  and  pay 
you  back  tenfold!"  I  said,  hurriedly.  "How 
much  have  you  ?" 

"Oh,  very  little,  my  deary;  a — a  matter, 
may  be,  of  thirty  pound,"  replied  she,  somewhat 
reluctantly. 

Thirty  pounds !  We  might  travel  a  long  way 
for  thirty  pounds,  with  economy.  To  Belgium, 
perhaps ;  or  some  obscure  corner  of  Switzerland ; 
or  Rome — ah  I  no ;  Rome  was  too  difficult  of 
access.  We  could  not  go  to  Rome  for  thirty 
pounds ;  and  yet  in  Rome,  I  could  have  earnedx 
money  by  my  art  more  easily  than  elsewhere. 
What  was  to  be  done  ? 

"  Or — or,  may  be,  it's  pretty  nigh  as  much  as 
fifty,"  added  Goody,  after  an  anxious  pause, 
during  which  she  had  watched  all  the  changes 
of  my  countenance.  "  I'm  pretty  sure  it's  fifty ; 
but  no  more." 

"  But  it's  enough,"  I  said.  "  Yes — yes,  quite 
enough," 

Goody  took  a  little  withered  stump  of  myrtle 


148 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


from  her  window,  set  the  pot  on  the  table,  and 
said,  with  a  sigh : — 

"  It's  all  there,  my  deary — every  penny  of  it. 
I'll  give  it  to  you  at  once,  and  it  will  be  off  my 
mind." 

And  with  this,  she  turned  the  myrtle  out, 
took  a  very  small  circular  tin  box  from  the 
bottom  of  the  pot,  cleansed  it  carefully  from 
the  loose  earth,  and  laid  the  contents  before 
me.  There  were  some  bank  notes,  and  a  few 
loose  coins. 

"  Two  twenties,  my  lamb,"  said  she,  smooth- 
ing them  out  tenderly,  as  they  lay  upon  the 
table  ;  "  two  twenties,  and  a  five,  and  four  sov- 
ereigns, and  two  halves,  and  a  lucky  sixpence. 
It's  the  savings  of  a  life,  my  deary,  but  you're 
welcome  to  them,  that  you  are  —  kindly  wel- 
come." 

The  simple,  generous  fidelity  of  this  honest 
heart  melted  the  ice  of  my  despair,  and  I  burst 
into  tears. 

"God  bless  you,  dear!  God  bless  you,  and 
thank  you,"  I  cried,  throwing  my  arms  about 
her  neck,  and  laying  my  head  down  upon  her 
shoulder,  as  I  used  when  I  was  a  little  child. 
"  You,  at  least,  will  never  deceive  me!" 

They  were  the  first  tears  I  had  shed  since 
this  blow  fell  upon  me ;  and  they  seemed  to 
cool  my  brain,  and  slacken  the  unnatural  ten- 
sion of  my  nerves.  They  left  me  clearer  to 
think  and  freer  to  act ;  and  it  was  well  they  did 
so,  for  now,  alas !  helpless  and  inexperienced  as 
I  was,  I  had  to  act  and  think  for  two. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  day  was  passing.  A 
few  more  words,  and  we  had  arranged  all.  I 
was  to  keep  the  money;  we  were  to  leave 
Broomhill  at  midday ;  and  I  was  to  take  her  up 
at  the  lodge  gate,  on  my  way  to  the  station. 
Thus  we  parted.  I  had  scarcely  passed  the 
garden  gate  when  she  came  running  after  me. 

"  You'll  bid  them  mind  the  poor  dumb  things, 
my  deary,"  said  she,  with  her  apron  to  her  eyes. 
"  There's  the  cat,  and  the  bulfinch,  and  the  cocks 
and  hens — they  all  love  me ;  and  I  should  be 
loth  to  think  they  were  forgotten." 

Struck  with  the  selfishness  of  my  sorrow, 
I  turned  back,  took  her  by  both  hands,  and 
said,  earnestly — 

"You  shall  not  leave  them — no,  dear  old 
friend,  you  shall  not  leave  them.  You — you  love 
your  little  home ;  you  had  thought.to  end  your 
days  in  it.  I  will  not  tear  you  from  it,  to  share 
my  sad  and  uncertain  fortunes.  I  am  young ; 
fitter  and  better  able  to  battle  with  the  world 
than  you.  Forget  that  I  asked  you  to  go  with 
me.     God  bless  you,  dear,  and  good-by." 

But  Goody  vrould  not  hear  of  this.  I  might 
say  what  I  pleased ;  but  she  would  never  leave 
me.  If  I  refused  to  take  her  with  me,  she 
would  follow  me  upon  her  knees ;  beg  her  way 
after  me  wherever  I  might  be;  pursue  me  to 
the  ends  of  the  earth  with  her  love  and  her 
devotion.  Finding  her  thus  resolute,  and  feel- 
ing my  own  weakness  and  desolation,  what 
could  I  do  but  thank  her  with  my  whole  heart 
for  the  sacrifice,  and  gratefully  accept  it? 

A  few  hours  more,  and  we  were  speeding 
toward  London;  Broomhill  receding  every 
moment  farther  and  farther  into  the  past,  and 
the  wide  world  opening,  a  desert,  before  me. 

A  weary  journey !  a  weary,  wretched  journey, 


made  up  of  anxious  days  and  dreary  nights ;  of 
bodily  unrest,  and  nervous  prostration ;  of  per- 
petual heart-ache,  of  broken  sleep,  and  terrified 
wakings,  and  strange  mental  confusion !  My 
recollection  of  it  is  indistinct  and  fragmentary. 
Scenes  and  incidents  occur  to  me  here  and  there, 
as  one  might  remember  glimpses- of  a  half-for- 
gotten panorama.  Faces  of  fellow-travelers  pass 
before  my  mind's  eye,  like  faces  seen  in  dreams. 
To  this  day,  I  shudder  when  I  recall  these  scat- 
tered mosaics  of  things  and  places  which  aro 
bound  up  in  my  memory  with  so  much  suffering. 

Now,  it  is  the  dull  room  where  we  wait,  hour 
after  hour,  till  the  starting  of  the  Dover  train. 
I  see  the  gloomy  fireplace  with  its  cavernous 
hollow  of  sullen  red  fire.  I  see  the  reversed 
letters  on  the  e^er-swinging  glass  door,.  I  see 
the  table  heaped  with  rugs  and  traveling-bags  ; 
the  travelers  that  come  and  go  incessantly  ;  the 
colored  flashes  on  the  wall  from  red  and  green 
lamps  which  are  carried  past,  lighted  by  hurry- 
ing porters.  I  see  the  widow-lady  in  the  corner, 
with  her  little  girl  asleep  on  the  sofa  beside  her, 
at  the  sight  of  whose  pale  face  and  mourning 
garb  my  tears  fell  without  control.  I  hear  the 
rumbling  vehicles  outside,  and  the  shrill  whistle 
of  arriving  trains ;  and  I  remember,  oh,  how 
distinctly  !  the  dread  with  which  I  turned  to  the 
door  each  time  it  opened,  trembling  lest  some 
fatal  chance  should  bring  Hugh  to  the  spot 
before  we  could  get  away  from  it. 

Now  it  is  midnight,  and  we  are  in  Dover.  We 
are  late,  and  are  hurried  off  to  the  boat,  which 
is  on  the  point  of  moving.  A  few  wintry  stars 
glimmer  here  and  there  overhead.  The  lights 
from  the  quays  flicker  down  upon  the  troubled 
water  in  the  harbor.  The  pier  seems  to  recede. 
The  steamer  begins  to  lurch.     We  are  at  sea. 

Now  we  are  on  shore  again,  in  a  dim  office 
guarded  by  foreign  soldiers.  Here,  all  is  confu- 
sion and  dismay,  for  I  have  forgotten  to  provide 
myself  with  a  passport.  Interrogated,  rebuffed, 
alarmed,  I  am  forbidden  to  pursue  my  journey 
without  the  authorization  of  the  resident  En- 
glish Consul.  It  is  now  between  four  and  five 
in  the  morning,  and  the  Consulate  will  not  be 
open  before  nine;  so  we  are  conducted  to  a 
huge  gloomy  hotel,  like  a  prison,  and  there  left 
till  morning.  Our  room  is  immense,  carpetless, 
damp  as  a  vault,  and  furnished  with  two  funereal- 
looking  beds,  antique  oaken  bureaus,  dusty  mir- 
rors, and  consoles  that  look  as  if  they  dated 
from  the  reign  of  Louis  Treize.  Weary  and 
miserable,  my  poor  old  nurse  and  I  sit,  hand  in 
hand,  talking  and  weeping  together  till  the 
neighboring  clocks  clash  and  clang  the  hour  of 
six,  and  the  market-folks  begin  to  be  noisy  in 
the  street  below.  Then,  outworn  with  fatigue 
and  sorrow,  we  both  sleep  heavily. 

Now  it  is  the  railway  again,  and  we  are  on  our 
way  to  Marseilles.  I  am  Mrs.  Carlyon,  British 
subject,  traveling  on  the  continent,  attended  by 
her  servant.  It  is  a  good  name,  and  belonged 
to  some  distant  ancestor  of  our  family.  I  re- 
membered it  in  the  old  genealogical  chart  that 
used  to  hang  in  my  father's  sitting-room,  and 
chose  it  for  that  reason.  It  is  very  trying  and 
monotonous,  this  perpetual  railway  traveling. 
Hour  after  hour,  in  daylight  or  dusk,  the  same 
landscape  seems  to  be  forever  flying  past. 
Sometimes  the  lamp  is  flickering  down  upon  the 
faces  of  our  fellow-travelers,  while  without  there 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


149 


are  white  villages  dimly  seen,  steep  cuttings,  and 
wide  flats  crossed  at  intervals  by  lines  of  skele- 
ton poplars  that  look  ghostly  in  the  moonshine. 
Sometimes  it  is  daylight,  and  very  cold.  The 
country  is  lightly  sprinkled  with  snow.  Trees, 
hills,  plains,  and  villages  flit  past  us  as  before  ; 
and  every  now  and  then  we  come  to  a  station 
near  a  large  town,  where  passengers  arrive  and 
alight,  and  venders  of  roasted  chestnuts  and 
French  journals  cry  their  wares  shrilly  to  and  fro 
upon  the  platform.  And  all  this  time  I  travel  like 
one  who  is  flying  from  fate ;  jaded,  benumbed, 
feverish,  and  sullenly  silent.  Sometimes  I  fall 
asleep ;  then  wake,  trembling,  from  fantastic 
dreams,  in  which  Hugh  and  Maddalena  and  my 
old  school-friends  at  ZoUenstrasse  are  strangely 
associated.  My  head  aches ;  my  lips  arc  parched 
and  bleeding ;  my  eyes  are  burning  hot ;  and, 
sleeping  or  waking,  an  oppressive  sense  of  woe 
weighs  on  my  chest,  and  impedes  mf  very 
breathing.  There  are  times  when,  do  what  I 
will,  I  can  not  keep  my  thoughts  steady ;  when 
all  seems  confusion  in  my  brain,  and  I  can  not 
dissever  the  things  of  the  past  from  the  events 
of  the  present.  There  are  also  times  when  I 
recall  our  life  in  Italy  with  strange  distinctness — 
when  I  torture  myself  with  reproaches  and  self- 
questionings,  and  repeat  over  and  over  again,  in 
the  silence  of  my  heart,  "  Alas  !  why  was  I  not 
content  in  my  Paradise  ?  Why  could  I  not 
have  been  happy  a  little  longer  ?" 

Thus,  with  one  night's  rest  at  Chalons-sur- 
Saone,  the  long  land  journey  passes,  and  we 
traverse  all  France  from  coast  to  coast.  The 
poor  old  woman  by  my  side  sleeps  nearly  all  the 
time  ;  and  bears  it,  on  the  whole,  better  than  I 
could  have  hoped.  For  my  own  part,  I  have 
some  recollection  of  wondering  once  or  twice, 
in  a  passive  confused  way,  whether  acute  mental 
suffering  and  bodily  fatigue  acted  upon  others  as 
they  were  now  acting  upon  me — whether  this 
faintness  and  shivering,  this  alternate  burning 
heat  and  freezing  cold,  this  torpidity  and 
languor,  were  common  to  all  who,  like  myself, 
were  weary  and  heavy-laden,  and  in  need  of 
rest? 

Now  it  is  a  great  crowded  port;  and  high 
white  buildings,  forts,  batteries,  ships,  piers, 
quays,  light-houses,  and  traffic  of  all  kinds, 
seem  to  pass  multitudinously  before  me.  Our 
luggage  is  placed  upon  a  truck,  and  we  follow  it 
down  to  the  place  of  embarkation,  through 
streets  crowded  with  vehicles,  soldiers,  sailors, 
and  foot-passengers.  Weak  and  trembling,  I 
cling  to  Goody's  arm  for  support ;  and,  once  on 
board,  am  thankful  to  go  at  once  to  my  berth, 
and  be  at  peace.  By  and  by,  the  steamer  be- 
gins to  sway,  and  we  are  again  at  sea. 

Then  comes  a  troubled,  restless  time,  of  which 
I  can  remember  nothmg  distinctly.  A  time  when 
I  lie,  hour  after  hour,  in  a  state  which  is  neither 
Bleeping  nor  waking — when  I  have  dreams  which 
seem  scarcely  to  be  dreams,  but  are  mixed  up, 
in  some  painful  way,  with  realities — when  not 
blood,  but  fire,  courses  through  my  veins  — 
when  my  thoughts  wander,  and  I  try  in  vain  to 
stay  their  wanderings — when  I  am  conscious  of 
uttering  words  over  which  I  have  no  control — 
when  my  own  voice  sounds  far  away — when  I 
fancy  I  can  hear  Hugh's  footstep  in  the  cabin  ; 
and  there  is  something  unfamiliar  in  Goody's 
well-known  face  beside  my  pillow  ;    and  the 


steamer  is  no  longer  the  steamer,  but  the  old 
house  in  which  I  was  born ;  and  the  dashing  of 
the  sea  against  the  port-hole  is  the  flowing  of 
the  canal,  through  which  the  painted  barges 
pass  and  repass  all  day  long. 

Then  I  hear  a  strange  voice,  which  says  that 
I  am  very  ill — and  then  all  is  blank. 


CHAPTER  LIII. 
goody's    secret. 

"  SuRELT,  dear  Goody,"  said  I  feebly,  "  I  have 
been  very  ill. 

"  Indeed  you  have,  my  lamb,"  repUed  Goody, 
wiping  her  eyes.  "  So  ill,  that  I  never  thought 
to  hear  you  call  me  by  my  right  name  again  !" 

I  looked,  languidly,  round  the  room ;  at  the 
painted  arabesques  on  the  walls  and  ceiUng ;  at 
the  print  in  a  black  frame  over  the  fireplace ; 
at  the  medicine-bottles  on  the  table.  All  were 
strange  to  me. 

"  What  place  is  this  ?"  I  asked. 

"  They  call  it  a  hotel,"  said  Goody,  contemp- 
tuously,    "/call  it  a  barrack." 

"  And  where  is  it  ?" 

Goody  shook  her  head  vehemently. 

"  There,  then,  my  deary,"  exclaimed  she, 
"don't  you  ask  me,  for  I'm  sure  I  can't  tell 
you,  no  more  than  one  of  them  cherubs  on  the 
ceiling !  It's  some  outlandish  name  or  another ; 
and  though  I  hear  it  twenty  times  a  day,  and 
though,  when  I  do  hear  it,  I  know  it,  I  couldn't 
fit  my  lips  to  it,  if  it  was  to  save  my  life  !  All 
I  can  answer  for  is,  that  the  Pope  of  Rome  an't 
very  far  off,  and  all  the  travelers  land  here  from 
the  steamers." 

I  closed  my  eyes  and  lay  silent  for  a  long 
time,  trying  to  remember  how  and  why  it  was 
that  I  had  left  Broomhill,  and  by  what  chance 
my  old  nurse  happened  to  be  with  me ;  but  I 
was  too  weak  to  think,  and  in  the  effort  fell 


When  I  next  woke,  it  was  dusk,  and  there 
were  two  gentlemen  in  the  room,  talking  softly 
together  beside  the  fireplace.  Finding  that  I 
was  awake,  one  came  to  my  bedside,  and  sat 
down ;  the  other  left  the  room. 

"  La  Signora  sta  meglio,''^  said  the  stranger, 
taking  my  wrist  between  his  fingers,  and  smil- 
ing gravely.     ^^  Ifolio  meglio." 

"  It's  the  doctor,  my  darling,"  whispered 
Goody,  over  his  shoulder. 

He  was  a  tall  young  man,  with  a  black  beard, 
and  a  very  gentle  voice.  Catching  the  sense  of 
her  explanation,  he  bowed  his  head  slightly,  and 
added — 

Si,  Signora  ;  sono  il  medico.''^ 

I  replied,  in  Itahan,  that  I  was  much  obliged 
to  him  ;  and  asked  how  long  I  had  been  ill. 

"The  Signora  arrived  here,"  said  he,  "on 
the  fifth  of  January,  and  it  is  to-day  the  second 
of  February." 

"And  this,  I  suppose,  is  Civita Vecchia ?'* 

"  Si,  Signora.  E  Civita  Vecchia,''^  he  replied. 

I  had  been  ill  a  month — a  whole  month,  every 
day  of  which  was  as  completely  blotted  from 
my  memory  as  if  it  had  never  been !  He  turned 
away,  examined  the  medicines  in  the  bottles, 
and  scribbled  a  rapid  prescription.  In  that  mo- 
ment I  remembered  all  that  had  happened  ;  but, 


150 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


being  so  very  weak,  remembered  it  with  no 
other  emotion  than  a  kind  of  languid  wonder, 
as  if  it  were  a  thing  of  long  ago.  The  prescrip- 
tion written,  the  doctor  came  back  to  my  bed- 
side. 

"  The  Signora  must  keep  very  quiet,"  said  he. 

To  which  I  replied — 

"  How  soon,  Signore,  shall  I  be  able  to  go  on 
to  Roipe  ?" 

He  smiled,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  If  you  are  impatient,  not  so  soon  as  if  you 
could,  for  the  present,  put  all  thought  of  it 
aside.  You  can  not  keep  your  mind  too  calm. 
You  can  not,  just  now,  think  or  converse  too 
little." 

I  promised  to  obey  as  literally  as  I  could ; 
whereupon  he  took  his  leave. 

The  next  day,  about  noon,  I  suddenly  recol- 
lected the  second  gentleman  whom  I  had  seen 
in  the  room  the  evening  before,  and  asked 
Goody  who  he  was. 

"  Second  gentleman,  my  latnb  f"  said  she, 
confusedly.  "  What  do  you  me^n  ?  What 
second  gentleman  ?" 

"He  left  the  room  just  as  I  woke,"  I  replied. 
"  He  was  standing  by  the  fireplace,  where  you 
are,  with  his  back  toward  the  bed.  Surely  you 
must  know  whom  I  mean !" 

"  Eh  ?  deary  me !  What  was  he  like,  dar- 
ling ?"  said  Goody,  bending  over  the  fire. 

"  I  don't  know.  It  was  dusk ;  and  he  was 
gone  immediately.  Is  he  the  doctor's  assist- 
ant?" 

"  The  doctor's  assistant  ?"  repeated  she. 
"Ay,  to  be  sure.  Yes,  yes,  my  lamb,  I  re- 
member." 

"  Then  he  was  the  assistant  ?" 

"  Now,  didn't  I  say  so  ?  But,  bless  your 
heart,  deary,  you  know  you're  not  to  talk." 

"  Well,  tell  me  one  thing — what  is  the  Doc- 
tor's name  ?" 

"  His  name  ?  Bless  you  !  my  lamb,  /  can't 
remember  their  outlandish  talk.  Why,  they 
don't  even  call  beef-tea,  beef-tea ;  nor  gruel, 
gruel — the  poor  heathens  !  I'm  sure,  I'm  ready 
to  go  down  on  my  knees,  sometimes,  and  thank 
God  that  I  wasn't  born  one  of  'em.  His  name, 
indeed  !  No,  no,  my  deary  ;  but  here's  his 
card.     May  be  you  can  make  it  out  by  that." 

I  looked  at  the  card,  which  she  held  before 
my  eyes,  and  read — "  Giorgio  Marco,  M.D.'*'' 

I  lay  still,  after  this,  for  a  long  time  ;  for  my 
thoughts  flowed  very  slowly.  When  I  next 
spoke,  it  was  to  say — 

"  Goody — how  much  money  have  we  left  ?" 

To  which  Goody  replied,  briskly — 

"  Oh,  plenty,  my  deary.  Near  five-and-twenty 
pound." 

Near  five-and-twenty  pounds  !  I  closed  my 
eyes  again,  and  tried  to  think  how  much  we 
had  spent  before  I  lost  my  memory ;  but  this 
was  an  effort  of  which  I  was  quite  incapable. 
I  then  tried  to  calculate  what  our  expenses  at 
Civita  Yecchia  might  amount  to ;  but  with  no 
better  success. 

"  There's  the  doctor  to  pay.  Goody,"  I  sug- 
gested, after  a  while, 

"  That  won't  be  much,"  said  she. 

"  He  has  attended  me  for  a  month,  has  he 
not?" 

Goody  admitted  the  fact,  reluctantly. 

"  And  has  called,  I  suppose,  daily  ?" 


Goody  admitted  this  also. 

"  Indeed,  there  were  some  days,"  added  she, 
"  when  he  came  twice — that  was  when  you  were 
at  the  worst,  my  deary.  But,  bless  you!  his 
bill  won't  be  much,  for  all  that.  Why,  he  lives 
in  two  little  rooms  up  at  the  top  of  a  great 
white  house  over  yonder ;  and  he  always  comes 
walking ;  and  when  it's  wet,  he  carries  a  red 
umbrella." 

Another  long  pause. 

"  And  then  there's  the  hotel  bill,"  I  resumed, 
by  and  by. 

"  Ah,  well ;  that  can't  be  much  either,"  said 
Goody.  "  We  have  only  this  one  room,  and  I 
attend  upon  you  myself;  and  as  for  eating  and 
drinking — ugh !  it's  little  enough  /  take  of  their 
nasty  food.  My  living  don't  cost  sixpence  a 
day." 

"Well,  well.  Goody,"  I  sighed,  quite  wearied 
out  by  this  long  conversation,  "  I  dare  say  the 
money  will  last  out  till  I  can  earn  some  more. 
If  not " 

"  Don't  you  think  of  that,  my  lamb,"  inter- 
rupted she.  "It'll  be  enough,  and  to  spare; 
take  my  word  for  it.  And  besides,  I  know 
what  I  know — but  there,  the  doctor  says  you're 
not  to  talk ;  so  don't  let's  say  another  word 
about  it." 

And  I  noticed,  after  this,  that  whenever  I 
began  to  speak  about  money,  or  my  desire  to 
reach  Rome,  or  any  other  subject  involving 
anxiety  about  the  future,  she  invariably  took 
refuge  in  Dr.  Marco's  prohibition,  and  reduced 
me  to  silence. 

Day  by  day,  though  very  slowly,  I  progressed 
toward  recovery.  My  hours  went  by  in  a 
kind  of  passive  languor.  Sitting  up  in  bed,  or 
propped  with  pillows  in  an  easy  chair,  I  was 
content  to  watch  Goody  at  her  work  ;  or  to  let 
my  eyes  wander  from  curve  to  curve,  from 
wreath  to  wreath  of  the  poor  conventional  ara- 
besques upon  the  wall,  with  scarcely  the  accom- 
paniment of  a  thought.  As  I  grew  stronger, 
however,  my  mind  began  to  dwell  more  upon 
the  future  and  the  past ;  and  the  old  perpetual 
sense  of  trouble  resumed  its  hold  upon  my 
heart.  I  became  restless  and  feverish.  I  pined 
for  active  occupation,  I  felt  that  the  first  great 
shock  of  my  grief  was  indeed  over ;  but  that 
the  weariness  and  desolation  of  life  were  mine 
forever. 

My  young  physician,  observant  of  every 
symptom,  came  to  me  one  morning  with  a  par- 
cel of  books  under  his  arm. 

"  What  have  you  there,  Dr.  Marco?"  I  asked. 

"  A  tonic,  signora,"  he  replied.  "  Your 
thoughts  want  feeding,  just  as  your  body  wants 
strengthening.  Change  of  mental  occupation  is 
as  necessary  to  health  as  change  of  scene  or 
diet," 

I  thanked  him,  and  untied  the  parcel.  There 
were  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds's  Discourses;  Lessing's 
" Laocoon  "  in  German ;  Schlegel's  "Letters  on 
Christian  Art,"  also  in  German ;  and  Viardot 
on  "  Les  Musees  d'ltalie."  Every  one  upon 
Art !  I  was  startled,  and,  looking  up  with  the 
quick  apprehension  of  one  who  has  a  secret  to 
keep,  said — 

"  This  is  a  strange  choice.  Dr.  Marco.  Your 
books  are  all  on  one  subject.  How  could  you 
tell  that  that  subject  would  interest  me  ?" 

He  colored  up  to  the  roots  of  his  hair. 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


151 


"  I — I  did  not  know — I  did  not  observe,  sig- 
nora,"  stammered  he.  . 

"  You  did  not  observe  ?"  I  repeated. 
I "  The  truth  is,  signora,"  replied  he,  "  they 
are  not  my  boolrs.     I  borrowed  them  for  you ; 
and  took  them,  as  they  were  given  to  me." 

"  Then  you  borrowed  them  from  an  artist,"  I 
said,  smiling. 

"Even  that  I  do  not  know,"  he  replied,  ex- 
amining the  volumes  with  some  embarrassment. 
"  They  belong  to  a  gentleman  who  was  staying 
at  this  hotel  when  you  were  first  brought  here, 
and  who  is  now  in  Rome.  He  still  comes  occa- 
sionally to  Civita  Vecchia.  He  may  be  an  art- 
ist. It  is  very  possible.  Rome  is  always 
crov\-ded  with  them." 

"  Ah,  Signor  Marco,"  I  said,  eagerly,  "  if  I 
could  but  reach  Rome  I  should  be  well.     How 

soon,  do  you  thinly " 

'*  As  soon,  signora,"  interposed  he,  'Hs  you 
can  take  a  drive  without  too  much  fatigue,  and 
are  strong  enough  to  bear  a  journey  of  eight 
hours.  In  the  mean  time,  I  think  it  would  be 
as  well  if  you  could  remove  into  a  more  cheer- 
ful room.  There  are  apartments  in  this  house 
which  look  toward  the  south,  and  command  the 
sea  and  the  harbor.  You  would  find  one  of 
those  much  pleasanter." 

I  thought  of  our  scanty  means,  and  sighed. 
Dr.  Marco  blushed  again,  like  a  girl. 

"  You  have  been  here  so  long,"  said  he, 
"  that  the  landlord  would,  no  doubt,  let  you 
have  a  front  room  for  the  same  rent  as  this. 
May  I  negotiate  for  you  with  him  ?" 

I  thanked  him,  and  accepted  his  offer.  When 
he  was  gone,  I  took  up  a  volume  of  Schlegel. 
Turning  to  the  fly-leaf,  I  found  the  right  hand 
top  corner  torn  off.  I  turned  to  the  next,  and 
found  it  mutilated  in  the  same  way.  I  then 
examined  all  the  rest ;  and  from  each  the  name 
of  the  owner  had  been  subtracted  in  the  same 
rough  fashion.  The  strangeness  of  it  awakened 
my  curiosity.  ' 

''iroody,"  I  said,  "did  you  ever  see  that 
gentleman  who  was  staying  here  when  we  first 
came  ? — the  gentleman  who  lent  these  books  to 
Dr.  Marco  ?" 

"  How  should  I  know,  my  deary  ?"  replied 
Goody,  carelessly.  "I've  seen  a  good  many 
gentlemen,  first  and  last,  since  we've  been  in 
this  house." 

"  The  one  I  mean  has  gone  to  Rome." 
To  which  she  only  said,  "  Ay,  indeed  ?"  and 
so  the  subject  dropped. 

The  next  day  we  removed  into  a  front  room 
overlooking  the  harbor,  where  I  could  sit  for 
hours  in  a  southward  window  basking  in  the 
sunshine,  and  watching  the  fishermen's  barks 
as  they  came  and  went  with  the  tides.  Leaning 
on  Goody's  arm,  I  could  now  walk  about  the 
room  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  at  a  time ;  and 
Dr.  Marco  proposed  that  I  should  venture  on  a 
drive  the  following  morning. 

Thus  recovering,  as  it  were,  hourly,  and  see- 
ing myself  ever  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  end  of 
my  journey,  I  began  to  get  seriously  anxious 
lest  our  money  should  not  be  sufficient  for  the 
discharge  of  our  debts  at  Civita  Vecchia.  I 
examined  the  contents  of  the  purse,  and  found, 
as  Goody  had  said,  a  sum  equivalent  to  about 
twenty-four  pounds  and  #relvc  shillings. 

"  What  shall  we  do,  dear,  if  it  is  not  enough  ?" 


I  said,  looking  hopelessly  at  the  money  in  my 
lap. 

"  It  will  be  enough,  and  pounds  to  spare,  my 
lamb,  as  I've  told  you  before,"  replied  Goody, 
oracularly. 

"  I  might  sell  my  watch  and  chain,  it  is 
true,"  I  pursued,  "though  I  should  be  sorry  to 
do  so." 

"  Did  he  give  'em  to  you,  my  deary  ?" 
'■''He?  Do  you  suppose  I  should  have  thought 
them  away  with  me,  if  he  had  ?"  I  asked,  flush- 
ing at  the  mere  mention  of  his  name.  "No, 
they  were  my  father's  gift,  on — on  my  wedding- 
day." 

"Ah,  well ;  you  won't  have  to  part  from  'em 
just  yet,"  said'  Goody,  with  confident  cojnpo- 
sure. 

I  was  not  quite  so  well  satisfied ;  and  so,  by 
and  by,  wrote  a  little  note  to  the  landlord  in 
my  best  Italian,  and  begged  that  I  might  have 
his  bill  made  out  up  to  the  present  time.  To 
my  amazement.  Goody  flatly  refused  to  take  it 
down. 

"  Goin'  worrittln  in  this  way  about  bills,  and 
money,  and  watches,  and  what  all !"  exclaimed 
she,  irritably.  "  It's  just  the  way  to  make  your- 
self ill  again,  and  lay  you  on  your  bed  for 
another  month,  it  is !  I  wonder  what  Doctor 
Mark  would  say!  No,  no, — I'll  have  nothing 
to  do  with  it.  Wait  a  day  or  two  longer,  till 
you're  strong  enough  to  think  of  going,  and 
then  I'll  take  your  messages,  and  welcome." 
I  rose,  and  rang  the  bell. 
"I  had  not  expected  this  from  you,  Beever," 
I  said  angrily.  "  But  there  are  servants  in  the 
hotel  who  will  obey  my  orders." 

The  door  opened  almost  immediately,  and  a 
waiter,  who  was  probably  passing,  came  in. 
"  Is  the  landlord  within?"     I  inquired. 
"  Si,  signora." 

"  Then  be  so  good  as  to  give  him  this  note, 
and  say  that  I  shall  be  obliged  by  a  speedy 
reply." 

The  waiter  took  it,  and  retired.  He  was  no 
sooner  gone  than  Goody  burst  into  tears,  and 
went  over  to  the  window  in  great  agitation. 

"  Oh,  dear  !  oh,  dear  1"  moaned  she,  "  what's 
to  be  done  now  ?  What's  to  be  done  now  ?  I 
can't  bear  your  anger,  my  lamb,  and  all  I've 
done,  I've  done  for  the  best ;  and  because  I  love 
you  as  if  you  had  been  my  own  flesh  and  blood  ! 
And  now  you'll  never  trust  me  again — I  know 
you  won't ;  and  whether  I  have  done  right  or 
wrong,  I  know  no  more  than  the  babe  un- 
born I" 

The  vehemence  and  suddenness  of  her  re- 
pentance quite  took  me  by  surprise. 

"My  dear  old  friend,"  I  said,  affectionately, 
"don't  be  grieved  —  don't  say  another  word 

about  it.     You  were  wrong  to  refuse,  but " 

"  No,  no,  no,"  she  interrupted,  sobbing.  "  It 
isn't  that,  my  dreary  love ;  it  isn't  that  at  all ! 
But  you'll  know  quite  soon  enough— ^h.  Lord  ! 
oh.  Lord!  here's  the  landlord  himself;  and 
now  it'll  all  come  out !" 

The  landlord  came  in ;  a  grave  man  dressed 
all  in  black,  with  a  white  cravat,  and  a  profusion 
of  jewelry.      He  held  my  note,  opened,  in  his 

hand ;   and  said,  bowing  profoundly 

"  The  Signora  has  done  me  the  honor  to 
write  ?" 
I  replied  that  I  had  written,  and  requested 


152 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


him  to  be  seated.  Goody's  last  mysterious  words 
had  somewhat  unnerved  me,  and  I  waited  with 
some  anxiety  for  what  he  should  say. 

He,  however,  bowed  again,  sat  down, 
coughed,  and  ventured  to  hope  that  the  signora's 
health  was  becoming  reestablished. 

I  thanked  him,  and  said  that  my  health  was 
already  much  improved  ;  for  which  I  was  large- 
ly indebted  to  the  care  of  Doctor  Marco. 

"  Doctor  Marco,  Signora,"  observed  the  land- 
lord, "  is  a  very  clever  young  man.  He  is  lost 
in  Civita  Vecchia.  There  is  an  opening  in 
Rome  for  a  physician  of  Doctor  Marco's 
abilities." 

I  replied  that  I  had  no  doubt  there  might  be. 
V  "The  air  of  Civita  Vecchia,  signora,  is  highly 
favorable  to  invalids," "continued. .the  landlord. 
"Many  come  from  Rome  to  recover.  The  sig- 
nora, I  will  venture  to  affirm,  would  not  have 
been  restored  so  rapidly  either  in  Rome  or  Flor- 
ence." 

1  bowed,  interrogatively ;  and  was  about  to 
lead  to  the  subject  of  my  note,  when  the  land- 
lord, with  polite  fluency,  resumed : — 

"The  signora,"  said  he,  "  sees  Civita  Vecchia 
at  its  dullest  season.  At  this  period  of  the  year, 
we  stagnate.  The  signora  should  visit  us  in  the 
bathing  season.  Then  all  is  life  and  gayety. 
Every  hotel  and  lodging-house  is  filled.  The 
beach  is  covered  with  promenaders.  We  have 
music  on  the  Molo,  daily.     E  molto  piacevole.'''' 

"  I  have  understood,"  I  replied,  "  that  it  is 
an  agreeable  villeggiatura.  -  But " 

"The  bathing,  too,  is  excellent,"  said  the 
landlord,  "and  is  preferred  by  many  to  the 
Baths  of  San  Giuliano.  We  were  honored,  last 
autumn,  by  a  visit  from  His  Holiness  the 
Pope." 

"  To  return,  however,  to  the  subject  of  my 
note,"  said  I,  resolutely  stemming  this  tide  of 
small  talk.  "  The  padrone  will  do  me  the  favor 
to  make  out  my  bill  in  full,  up  to  the  present 
time ;  after  which,  if  he  pleases,  we  can  begin 
a  new  account.  I  purpose  leaving  Civita  Vecchia 
for  Rome  in  a  few  days,  and  I  wish  to  form 
some  estimate  of  what  my  expenses  have  been 
during  my  illness." 

The  landlord  bowed  again ;  referred  to  the 
note  through  a  double  eye-glass  ;  darted  a  sus- 
picious glance  toward  Goody,  who  was  rocking 
herself  restlessly  to  and  fro  in  her  chair  at  the 
farther  end  of  the  room ;   and  said — 

"  The  signora  desires  to  have  a — a  copy  of  all 
her  weekly  accounts,  dating  from  the  fifth  of 
January  ?" 

"  Precisely." 

"  We  are  not  in  the  habit  of  copying  former 
accounts,"  said  the  landlord ;  "  but  as  this  is 
not  our  busiest  season,  and  the  signora  has  been 
with  us  for  some  weeks,  it  shall  be  done,  to 
oblige  her.' 

"  To  oblige  me  ?"  I  repeated,  with  a  smile. 

He  darted  another  glance  at  Goody ;  looked 
somewhat  embarrassed ;  and  said,  with  a  hesita- 
tion very  unlike  his  former  fluency — " 

"  I  am  surely  mistaken  in  supposing  the  sig- 
nora to  be  ignorant  of  the  fact  that — that  her 
accounts  have  been  regularly  paid  during  the 
period  of  her  stay  in  my  house  ?" 

"  Paid?"  I  echoed,  scarcely  believing  my  ears. 

"  Paid  punctually,  every  Monday  morning." 

"By  whom?" 


"  By  the  signora's  own  servant,  who  has  all 
the  receipts  in  her  possession." 

"  Is  this  true  ?"  I  asked,  rising,  all  in  a  tremble, 
and  facing  her  where  I  stood.     "  Is  this  true  ?" 

"  Is  what  true  ?"  whimpered  Goody,  with 
averted  face. 

Her  voice  and  attitude  confirmed  it,  without 
need  of  confession.  I  turned  to  the  landlord, 
who  was  fidgeting  with  his  eye-glass  in  the 
utmost  perplexity,  and  wished  him  good-day. 

"  If  I  can  be  of  any  further  service  to  the 
signora "  he  began. 

"  Not  of  the  least,  thank  you." 

"  The  accounts,"  said  he,  lingering,  "  shall  be 
copied  forthwith." 

"  Pray  do  not  take  the  trouble,"  I  replied. 
"  It  is  sufficient  if  my  servant  has  the  originals 
in  her  care.     Good  afternoon." 

"  Good  afternoon,  signora— good  afternoon." 

And  the  padrone  reluctantly  took  his  leave, 
with  his  curiosity  unsatisfied. 

When  he  was  gone,  I  went  over  and  stood 
before  her. 

"Whose  money  was  it?"  I  asked,  in  an 
agitated  whisper.  "  Tell  me  at  once.  No  lies — 
no  equivocations.     Whose  money  was  it  ?" 

"  Oh,  dear  !  oh  dear !"  cried  she,  "  I  did  it 
for  the  best — indeed,  indeed,  I  did." 

Half  beside  myself  with  apprehension  and 
anger,  I  took  her  by  the  arm  and  shook  it 
violently. 

"  Speak  at  once,"  I  said.  "  What  wicked 
folly  have  you  been  committing  ?  You  have  be- 
trayed me — confess  that  you've  betrayed  me !" 

"  No,  no,  my  dear  lamb,  not  that !  not  that ! 
I  couldn't  help  his  seeing  you  —  you  being 
carried  up  on  a  mattress,  poor  love,  as  helpless 
as  a  babe  —  how  could  I  ?  But,  there  —  only 
give-  me  time,  and  don't  frighten  me,  and  I'U 
tell  you  every  thing — that  I  will,  my  deary,  true 
as  Gospel !" 

"  HeP''  I  faltered,  catching  at  a  chair  for  sup- 
port.    "  Who  ?    For  God's  sake,  who  ?" 

Poor  old  Goody  wrung  her  hands  together, 
and  looked  up,  deprecatingly,  through  her 
tears. 

"  I  don't  know,  my  deary  !"  she  sobbed,  "  I 
never  saw  him  before,  in  all  my  life ;  but  he 
said  he  knew  you  as  well  as  if  he  was  your  own 
father — and — and  I  believed  him — and  I  know 
I  was  very  wrong  to  take  his  money  ;  but  I  was 
all  alone  among  strangers,  my  deary,  in  a  —  a 
foreign  land — and  you  all  but  dying — and — and 
I  was  so  thankful  to  find  a  friend,  that — that ' ' 

I  flung  myself  into  her  arms,  and  kissed  her 
over  and  over  again. 

"  Hush,  dear,  hush !"  I  cried.  "  I  thought  it 
was  —  you  know  who  I  thought  it  must  be ! 
Since  it  is  a  stranger,  never  mind.  We  can  pay 
him  back  his  money,  whoever  he  may  be.  I 
was  very,  very  harsh  to  you,  dear  —  pray  for- 
give me.  There,  now  —  dry  your  eyes,  and  try 
to  describe  him  to  me ;  and  let  us  think  how 
we  can  find  him  out,  and  how  much  we  owe 
him,  and  who  he  can  be.  In  the  first  place, 
what  is  his  name  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  my  deary." 

"  Did  he  never  tell  you  ?  Or  have  you  for- 
gotten it?" 

"  He  never  told  me,  my  deary." 

"Was  he  old  or*^oung?  Tall  or  short? 
Fair  or  dark  ?" 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


153 


"  Bless  you,  my  lamb,"  said  Goody,  with  a 
bewildered  face,  "  I  haven't  the  leaat  notion." 

"Itisn'tDr.  Topham?" 

She  shook  her  head,  doubtfully. 

"  You  remember  to  have  seen  him,  dear,  at 
Broomhill?  The  doctor,  you  know — my  aunt's 
doctor,  who  used  to  come  riding  through  the 
park  on  his  little  pony — a  very  cheerful,  pleas- 
ant   " 

"  It's  no  one  I've  ever  seen  before,"  replied 
Goody,  decisively ;  "and  the  farthest  off  from 
cheerful  and  pleasant  that  I've  come  across  this 
many  a  day.  I  don't  mean  to  say  but  what  he's 
very  kind,  my  lamb  —  as  kind  as  can  be.  He 
helped  to  carry  you  up-stairs  himself;  and  he 
downright  forced  the  money  into  my  hand,  say- 
ing you  might  want  comforts,  and  that  was  to 
make  sure  of  your  having  all  that  was  necessary 
before  he  came  again." 

"And  he  did  come  again?"  '^ 

"Bless  you,  yes  —  ho  was  staying  in  the 
hotel  for  the  first  day  or  two  ;  and  after  he'd 
gone  away  to  the  Pope  of  Rome,  he  came  back 
once  or  twice ;  and  would  have  had  me  take 
more  money  every  time,  only  I  knew  we  had 
enough  without  it,  and  wouldn't  hear  of  it." 

"  Did  he  seem  to  be  very  rich  and  grand  ?"  I 
asked  next,  with  some  vague  idea  of  the  Grand 
Duke  floating  through  my  mind.  "Had  he 
many  servants  with  him ;  and  did  he  seem  like 
a  nobleman  ?" 

"  Lord,  no,  my  deary  !  as  plain  as  could  be." 

"You  are  quite  sure  he  was  an  Englishman?" 

"  Indeed  I  wouldn't  be  sure  at  all,"  replied 
she.  "  He  had  a  queer  way  in  his  talk.  To  be 
sure,  he  might  be  from  some  other  part  of  the 
country ;  but  I  can't  help  thinking  the  English 
didn't  come  quite  natural  to  him." 

My  eyes  fell  upon  the  volumes.  A  sudden 
thought  flashed  across  me. 

"  It  is  the  same  who  left  the  books  with  Doc- 
tor Marco  !"  I  cried,  eagerly.  "  Run,  dear  — 
run  down  and  ask  the  landlord  to  let  me  see 
the  visitor's  book.  I'm  sure  I  know  who  it  is 
now !" 

"  How  am  I  to  ask  for  it,  my  deary  ?"  said 
Goody.  "  You  must  write  it  on  a  bit  of  paper, 
please,  and  —  Mercy  !  there  he  is  !" 

"Where?  where?" 

"  There,  my  deary  —  down  by  those  posts 
there  —  coming  up  to  the  house,  with  his  face 
this  way !" 

I  followed  the  direction  of  her  finger ;  and 
saw,  as  I  had  already  expected  to  see — Profes- 
sor Metz. 


CHAPTER    LIY. 

THE   CHANGE   'tWIXT  NOW  AND  THEN. 

"  Roma  !  Roma  !  Roma  ! 
Non  6  piu  come  era  prima !" 

To  an  artist,  the  words  "  habitable  Rome," 
convey  few  ideas  beyond  the  Via  Margutta  and 
the  Cafe  Greco.  In  the  former  he  lives  and 
works ;  in  the  latter  he  smokes,  sups,  meets 
his  friends,  and  with  them  discusses  his  bottle 
of  Orvieto  and  the  news  of  the  day.  From  the 
cafe  my  inclinations  and  sex  alike  excluded  me ; 
but  in  its  immediate  neighborhood,  if  not  in  the 
street    itself,   my  lodgings    were    situated.     I 


lived,  in  short,  in  precisely  that  central  house 
of  the  Vicolo  dAliberti  that  looks  down  the 
Via  Margutta.  Those  who  know  Rome  will  not 
need  to  be  told  that  these  two  streets,  in  their 
relative  positions,  take  the  form  of  a  T. 

The  Via  Margutta  is  a  street  of  studios  and 
stables,  crossed  at  the  upper  end  by  a  little 
roofed  gallery  with  a  single  window,  like  a  shab- 
by Bridge  of  Sighs.  Horses  are  continually  be- 
ing washed  and  currycombed  outside  their 
stable-doors;  frequent  heaps  of  immondezzajo 
make  the  air  unfragrant ;  and  the  perspective  is 
too  frequently  damaged  by  rows  of  linen  sus- 
pended across  the  road  from  window  to  window. 
Unsightly  as  they  are,  however,  these  obstacles 
in  no  wise  afiect  the  popularity  of  the  Via  Mar- 
gutta, either  as  a  residence  for  the  artist,  or  a 
lounge  for  the  amateur.  Fashionable  patrons 
leave  their  carriages  at  the  corner,  and  pick 
their  way  daintily  among  the  gutters  ^nd  dust- 
heaps.  A  boar-hunt  by  Vallati  compensates 
for  an  unlucky  splash ;  and  a  Campagna  sunset 
of  Dessoulavey  glows  all  tho  richer  for  the 
squalor  through  which  it  is  approached.  But  I 
was  not  a  resident  in  the  street  of  painters.  I 
only  commanded  it  from  my  bedroom  window ; 
and  I  lived  chiefly  at  the  back  of  the  house,  in 
a  room  which  served  me  for  studio  and  parlor 
together.  Just  outside  this  room  was  a  little 
loggia,  where  I  could  breakfast  in  the  open  air ; 
and  where  Goody  used  to  sit  in  the  sun  with 
her  needlework  while  I  was  painting,  and  chat 
to  me  through  the  open  window.  The  loggia 
was  a  great  comfort  to  us ;  for  there  was  no 
garden  attached  to  the  house  in  which  we  Hved. 
We  were,  however,  surrounded  on  this  side  by 
the  gardens  of  others,  overlooking,  as  we  did, 
the  great  quadrangle  formed  by  the  backs  of 
the  houses  in  the  Via  Babuino,  the  north  side 
of  the  Piazza  di  Spagna,  the  high  ridge  of  the 
Pincian  hill,  and  our  own  modest  little  Vicolo 
d'Aliberti.  Within  this  quadrangle  the  air  was 
always  fresh,  and  the  sunshine  warm  and  lulling. 
The  gardens  below  were  full  of  orange  and 
lemon  trees ;  some  of  which  (laden  with  yellow 
fruit,  like  the  golden  apples  of  the  poets)  were 
trained  along  the  walls;  while  others,  again, 
stood  sturdy  and  wide-spreading,  like  mere 
northern  apple-trees.  Most  of  our  neighbors 
kept  poultry  ;  and  many  were  the  contrivances 
of  up-stair  lodgers  to  hang  linen  from  window- 
to  window,  or  balcony  to  balcony.  In  one  gar- 
den close  by,  there  was  an  old  marble  water- 
tank,  that  had  once  been  a  costly  sarcophagus, 
and  came,  most  probably,  from  the  tomb  of 
some  noble  Roman  on  the  Appian  Way.  In  an- 
other, were  two  crumbling  moss-grown  urns  of 
stone,  apparently  of  cinque-cento  origin.  Piled 
high  upon  a  loggia  nearly  opposite,  rose  a  pyra- 
mid of  empty  Orvieto  bottles,  in  their  wicker- 
coats.  Lower  down  were  the  stables  of  a  re- 
mise ;  and  on  the  brow  of  the  Pincian,  closing 
in  our  horizon  on  the  left,  stood  the  twin-tow- 
ered villa  of  the  French  Academy.  Mei-ely  to 
lounge  on  this  little  loggia  in  the  morning  sun- 
light, throwing  crumbs  to  the  chickens  in  my 
neighbor's  garden,  watching  the  light  and 
shadow  on  the  green  leaves  and  the  broken 
urns,  and  listening  to  the  military  music  on  the 
Pincian,  was  pleasant  and  soothing  to  one  whose 
health  was  so  broken  as  mine.  It  was  a  quiet, 
cheerful  nook — just  the  place  in  which  to  live  a 


lU 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


life  of  -work  and  solitude ;  day  repeating  day, 
and  year  year,  till  the  end  should  come. 

This  little  home  was  found  for  me  by  my  good 
friend,  tha  Professor.  Poor  Goody,  it  appeared, 
'had  told  him,  in  her  perplexity  and  fesjr  of  pos- 
sible consequences,  that  I  had  lost  my  husband, 
and  come  abroad  for  change  of  scene.  He  be- 
lieved my  name  to  be  Carlyon ;  and  he  knew 
that  I  looked  to  my  artistic  talents  for  a  liveli- 
hood. Finding  all  this  to  be  the  case,  I  suffered 
him  to  continue  in  the  same  convictions ;  and 
this  with  all  the  less  difficulty,  since  he  scrupu- 
lously abstained  from  even  an  allusion  to  my 
married  life.  Was  I  wrong  to  do  this  ?  I  think 
not.  I  could  have  told  him  nothing,  unless  I 
told  all ;  and  my  wounds  were  too  fresh  to  bear 
reopening.  And  then  the  shame  of  it !  No — 
no ;  broken  as  I  was,  my  pride  sealed  that  con- 
fession on  my  lips,  and  gave  me  strength  to 
suffer  in  silence. 

The  dear,  rough,  kind  Professor!  I  had 
never  known  till  now  how  gentle,  how  chival- 
rous, how  generous  a  heart  beat  beneath  that 
rugged  exterior.  I  was  unhappy,  and  he  respect- 
ed my  sorrow.  I  was  ill,  and  he  succored  me. 
I  was  alone,  and  he  protected  me.  He  brought 
me  to  my  little  home  himself,  all  the  way  from 
Civita  Vecchia ;  saw  to  the  drawing  up  of  the 
agreement  by  which  I  hired  it ;  and  was  as 
careful  of  my  interests  and  my  comfort  as  if 
I  had  been  his  own  child.  He  had  come  to 
Rome  to  collect  works  of  art  for  the  Grand 
Duke,  and  was  lodging  temporarily  in  the  Piazza 
di  Spagna.  Closely  as  his  time  was  occupied, 
he  came  to  see  me  once  in  every  day ;  and  often, 
when  he  had  been  the  whole  morning  among 
the  print-shops  or  studios,  would  bring  an  open 
vettura  in  the  afternoon,  to  take  me  for  a  drive 
along  the  meadows  behind  St.  Angelo.  As  I 
became  stronger,  he  introduced  me  to  several 
of  the  best  picture-dealers;  one  of  whom  at 
once  commissioned  me  to  copy  a  painting  in 
the  Schiarra  Palace.  From  this  moment,  my 
modest  future  was  assured.  Once  known  in 
Rome  as  the  pupil  of  so  eminent  a  master,  I  was 
certain  of  employment  as  a  copyist;  and  a 
copyist  was  now  all  that  I  desired  to  be.  Am- 
bition, hope,  the  desire  of  excellence,  the  love 
of  praise,  were  all  dead  within  me.  The  en- 
thusiasm with  which  I  once  worshiped  the 
painter's  art,  was  dead  also.  I  did  not  even 
look  upqn  the  masterpieces  of  the  past  with  the 
same  eyes  as  before.  For  me,  the  Magdalens  of 
Guido  had  lost  their  languid  charm.  Something 
of  its  subtlety  had  fled  from  the  syren  smile  of 
Johanna  of  Naples.  A  power  was  gone  out 
from  the  walls  of  the  Sistine,  and  ,a  glory  had 
faded  from  the  Transfiguration.  Not  all  the 
wonders  of  art,  antiquity,  or  story  had  power 
now  to  hasten  the  pulses  of  my  heart.  I  could 
wander  among  the  colossal  ruins  of  the  Baths  of 
Caracalla,  or  tread  the  chariot- worn  pavement  of 
the  Appian  Way,  with  an  apathy  at  which  I 
marveled.  Nothing  moved  me,  save  the  re- 
membrance of  when  and  with  whom  I  had  first 
visited  each  well-known  site.  In  the  Colosseum, 
I  no  longer  saw  Commodus,  "  the  Imperial  Sa- 
gittary,"  with  his  crescent -shaped  shafts,  decap- 
itating the  ostrich  as  it  fled  round  the  arena. 
Amid  the  gigantic  desolation  of  the  Palace  of 
the  Caesars,  I  no  longer  remembered  Caligula 
dancing  madly  before  the  trembling  Consuls, 


"in  the  second  watch  of  the  night,"  or  Nero 
weeping  on  the  bosom  of  his  nurse,  I  thought 
only  of  Hugh,  and  of  how  we  had  wandered 
together  in  the  shadow  of  these  very  walls  and 
arches.  I  remembered  how,  for  my  pleasure, 
he  used  to  ransack  the  stores  of  his  learning, 
people  each  ruin  with  the  men  of  antique  Rome, 
and  "unsphere"  the  spirits  of  Suetonius  and 
Plutarch.  "  In  Italy,"  saith  a  brilliant  Essayist, 
"  we  leave  ourselves  behind,  and  travel  through 
a  romance."  Alas !  it  was  so  with  me,  but  in  a 
sadder  and  a  very  different  sense.  I  had  indeed^ 
left  far  behind  my  former  self  of  youth  and  hap- 
piness; and  now,  a  mere  shadow  traveled 
mournfully  through  the  romance  of  my  own  fair 
and  faded  past.  Every  broken  column,  every 
mouldering  architrave,  recalled  some  half-for- 
gotten passage  from  its  pages.  On  this  fallen 
capital  I  sat  to  rest,  while  he  filled  my  lap  with 
violets.  At  this  fountain  we  stooped  and  drank, 
in  the  mid-day  sunshine.  In  this  mosaic-paven 
nook  we  read  aloud  the  fourth  canto  of  Childe 
Harold.  It  was  all  over  now.  He  whom  I  had 
worshiped  as  a  child,  dreamed  of  as  a  girl, 
adored  as  a  wife,  had  deceived  me,  wronged  me, 
embittered  all  my  past,  and  laid  waste  all  my 
future.  Yet  I  lived,  and  knew  that  I  must  bear 
the  burden,  and  set  myself  to  the  business  of 
life.  Life  ? — alas !  what  was  life  to  me  ?  Like 
the  Campagna,  on  nil  sides  a  desert ;  at  every 
step,  a  tomb.  All  the  joy  and  the  fullness  of 
this  life  of  mine  had  sunk,  in  one  night,  at  a 
single  blow ;  like  a  stately  ship  that  goes  down 
in  the  deep  waters,  with  all  sail  set,  and  every 
hand  on-  board.  Still  I  lived,  and  was  calm  ; — 
so  calm  that  I  sometimes  asked  myself  if  my 
heart  yet  beat  in  my  bosom,  and  the  blood  yet 
ran  warm  in  my  veins  ? 

And  thus  the  weary  sands  dropped,  dropped, 
dropped  daily,  in  the  great  hour-glass  of  Time. 


CHAPTER  LV. 

TIME   PAST  AND   TIME   PRESENT. 

"  Parvcm  parva  decent.    Mihi  jam  non  regia  Roma 
Sed  vacuum  Tibur  placet." — ^Horace. 

"  Cyprus  and  ivy,  weed  and  wall -flower  grown 
Matted  and  massed  together,  hillocks  heaped 
On  what  were  chambers,  arch  crushed,  column  strown 
In  fragments,  choked-up  vaults,  and  frescoes  steeped 
In  subterranean  damps." — Byron. 

Tpiere  was  a  tap  at  the  door 

"  May  I  come  in  ?"  said  a  well-known  voice. 

The  voice  was  followed  by  the  shaggy  gray 
head  of  the  Herr  Professor,  and  the  head  was 
duly  succeeded  by  the  rest  of  his  gaunt  person, 

"Are  you  not  always  welcome?"  I  replied, 
answering  a  question  with  a  question.  "I  am 
making  the  coffee,  while  Goody  is  gone  to  the 
Via  Condotti  for  the  rolls.  Will  you  breakfast 
with  us  ?" 

"  Breakfast !  I  breakfasted  two  hours  ago, 
by  candle-light." 

"  You  are  a  Spartan,  mein  Professor." 

"You  are  a  Sybarite,  mdne  Hebe  Schiilerinn. 
Who  ever  heard  of  such  an  hour  as  eight  for 
breakfast  at  the  Zollenstrasse  College?  Madame 
Brenner  would  be  ashamed  of  you." 

"  My  dear  friend,"  I  said,  smiling  and  sighing 
together,  "that  was  at  least  fifty  years  ago  — 
when  I  was  young." 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


165 


"  Pooh !  you  are  a  child  now,"  growled  the 
Professor  ;  "  and  because  you  are  a  child,  I  come 
to  propose  a  holiday.     Will  you  go  to  TivoU  ?" 

"  To  Tivoli  ?    When  ?" 

"  To-day.  It  is  still  early  enough,  and  will  do 
you  good.     Yes  or  no  ?" 

I  had  no  desire  to  go,  but  feared  to  disappoint 
him  by  a  refusal. 

"  If  you  can  spare  the  time,"  I  began,  "  and 
would  enjoy  it " 

"  I  can  spare  the  time,"  he  interrupted  ;  "  but 
my  stay  in  Rome  draws  to  an  end ;  and  in  another 
week  I  may  be  no  longer  here.  Shall  I  order  a 
carriage  to  be  at  the  door  in  half  an  hour  ?" 

"  In  twenty  minutes,  if  you  Uke,  mein  Pro- 
fessor." 

"  No  no — eat  your  breakfast  in  peace.  And, 
remember,  your  friend  Goody  is  a  charming  old 
woman ;  but  she  may  as  well  stay  at  home,  and 
keep  house."  ^ 

With  this,  he  strode  away  down-stairs,  three 
steps  at  a  time,  and  I  presently  saw  him  in  the 
yard  of  the  remise,  several  gardens  off,  inspect- 
ing the  condition  of  an  open  carriage  which  was 
being  cleaned  by  one  of  the  stablemen. 

The  drive  was  less  beautiful  than  most  of  those 
which  lie  round  Rome,  and  the  Professor  was' 
more  than  usually  silent.  Thus  two  hours  and 
a  half  went  by,  dully ;  and  I  was  not  sorry  when, 
turning  aside  from  the  castellated  tomb  of  the 
Plautia  family,  we  passed  down  a  shady  lane, 
and  stopped  at  the  gate  of  Hadrian's  Villa. 
Alighting  here,  we  passed  into  that  wide  and 
wondrous  wilderness  of  ruin,  through  avenues 
dark  with  cypress,  and  steep  banks  purple  with 
violets.  The  air  was  heavy  with  perfume.  The 
glades  were  carpeted  with  daisies,  wild  peri- 
winkle, and  white  and  yellow  crocus-blooms. 
We  stepped  aside  into  a  grassy  arena  which  was 
once  the  Greek  theater,  and  sat  upon  a  fallen 
cornice.  There  was  the  narrow  shelf  of  stage 
on  which  the  agonies  of  (Edipus  and  Prometheus 
were  once  rehearsed ;  there  was  the  tiny  altar 
which  stood  between  the  audience  and  the  act- 
ors, and  consecrated  the  play  ;  there,  row  above 
row,  were  the  seats  of  the  spectators.  Now,  the 
very  stage  was  a  mere  thicket  of  brambles,  and  a 
little  thrush  lighted  on  the  altar,  while  we  were 
sitting  by,  and  filled  all  the  silent  space  with 
song. 

Passing  hence,  we  came  next  upon  open  fields, 
partly  cultivated,  and  partly  cumbered  with  shape- 
less mounds  of  fallen  masonry.  Here,  in  the 
shadow  of  a  gigantic  stone  pine,  we  found  a  sheet 
of  mosaic  pavement  glowing  with  all  its  marbles 
in  the  sun ;  and  close  by,  half  buried  in  deep 
grass,  a  shattered  column  of  the  richest  porphyry. 
Then  came  an  olive  plantation  ;  another  theater ; 
the  fragments  of  a  temple ;  and  a  long  line  of 
vaulted  cells,  some  of  which  contained  the  re- 
mains of  baths  and  conduits,  and  were  tapes- 
tried within  with  masses  of  the  delicate  maiden- 
hair fern.  Separated  from  these  by  a  wide  space 
of  grass,  amid  which  a  herd  of  goats  waded  and  fed 
at  their  pleasure,  rose  a  pile  of  reticulated  wall, 
with  part  of  a'vast  hall  yet  standing,upon  the  vault- 
ed roof  of  which,  sharp  and  perfect  as  if  mould- 
ed yesterday,  were  incrusted  delicate  bas-reliefs 
of  white  stucco,  representing  groups  of  Cupids, 
musical  instruments,  and  figures  reclining  at 
table.  Near  this  spot,  on  a  rising  ground  formed 
all  of  ruins  overgrown  with  grass  and  under- 


wood, we  sat  down  to  rest,  and  contemplate  the 
view. 

A  deep  romantic  valley  opened  before  us, 
closed  in  on  either  side  by  hanging  woods  of 
olive  and  ilex,  with  here  and  there  a  group  of 
dusky  junipers,  or  a  solitary  pine,  rising  like  a 
dark  green  parasol  above  all  its  neighbors.  In- 
terspersed among  these  and  scattered  about  the 
foreground,  were  mountainous  heaps  of  but- 
tressed wall,  arch,  vault,  and  gallery,  all  more 
or  less  shattered  out  of  form,  or  green  with  ivy. 
At  the  bottom  of  the  valley,  forming,  as  it  were, 
the  extreme  boundary  of  the  middle  distance, 
rose  two  steep  volcanic  hills,  each  crowned  with 
a  little  white  town,  that  seemed  to  wink  and  glit- 
ter in  the  sun  ;  while  beyond  these,  again,  undu- 
lating, melancholy,  stretching  mysteriously  away 
for  miles  and  miles  in  the  blue  distance,  lay  the 
wastes  of  the  Campagna. 

The  Professor  pulled  out  his  book,  and  made 
a  rapid  sketch. 

"  Why  do  you  not  also  draw  ?"  asked  he. 

"  Because  I  prefer  to  be  idle,  and  fancy  how 
this  scene  may  have  looked  eighteen  hundred 
years  ago." 

"You  can  not  fancy  it,"  he  said,  abruptly. 
"  It's  impossible.  Who  could  reconstruct,  to  the 
mind's  eye,  a  group  of  palaces,  theaters,  bar- 
racks, temples,  and  gardens,  such  as  once  were 
here  gathered  together  ?  Why,  the  outer  wall 
measured  between  eight  and  ten  miles  round." 

"It  was  not  a  villa  at  all,"  I  replied.  "It 
was  a  model  city." 

"  And  can  you  '  fancy '  a  city  ?" 

"  Perhaps." 

The  professor  grinned,  somewhat  contemptu- 
ously ;  shook  his  head ;  and  went  on  sketching. 

Now  it  happened  that  I  really  could  '  fancy ' 
these  things  with  a  degree  of  accuracy  that 
would  have  been  surprising  had  the  knowledge 
been  my  own.  I  had  gone  over  this  very  ground 
with  Hugh,  when  we  were  living  in  and  near 
Rome,  many  and  many  a  time.  It  had  been  one 
of 'our  most  favorite  spots,  and  I  knew  every 
site,  every  path,  and  every  historical  conjecture 
of  the  place  by  heart.  To  reconsti-uct  these 
buildings;  to  people  temple,  and  palace,  and 
amphitheater,  with  the  life  of  eighteen  hundred 
years  ago ;  to  identify  each  hill,  and  vale,  and 
pile  of  ruin,  had  been  precisely  the  object  and 
the  charm  of  our  explorations.  It  was  in  studies 
such  as  these  that  Hugh's  active  mind  found  one 
of  its  highest  satisfactions.  They  brought  his 
vast  reading  to  the  surface.  They  exercised  his 
imagination,  stimulated  his  memory,  and  in- 
terested him  on  the  side  of  poetry  and  art.  I 
think  I  seldom  knew  him  so  communicative  of 
his  knowledge,  and  so  happy  in  the  exercise  of 
his  manifold  powers,  as  when,  strolling  through 
these  ruins,  he  used  to  think  aloud,  and  enrich 
my  mind  with  the  precious  overflowings  of  his 
own. 

Of  all  this,  however,  the  Professor  knew  noth- 
ing; and  80,  being  tjiis  morning  in  a  particu- 
larly amiable  mood,  began  presently  to  banter 
me  on  my  "  antiquarian  spirit." 

"  Why  so  silent  ?"  said  he.  "  Lost  among 
the  Romans — eh  ?  Perhaps  you  knew  the  Em- 
peror Hadrian  in  some  state  of  preexistenee— 
who  knows  ?" 

"  Perhaps  I  was  a  handmaiden  of  J[ulia  Sabina." 

"  Julia  Sabiua  1    Who  was  she  ?" 


166 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


"  His  wife,  mein  Professor." 

"  Humph !  I  wish  your  antiquarian  inspira- 
tion would  move  you  to  discover  what  all  these 
places  were,  that  I'm  putting  in  my  sketch." 

"  Will  you  confess  that  I  am  a  genuine  Sibyl, 
if  I  really  tell  you?' 

"  Oh,  of  course." 

"  Well,  then,  this  spot  on  which  we  are  sit- 
ting was  probably  the  site  of  an  Academy.  The 
valley  before  us  was  called  the  Vale  of  Tempo, 
and  laid  out  in  imitation  of  the  celebrated 
Thessalian  pass.  Down  yonder,  where  you  see 
that  line  of  bushes  and  deep  grass,  there  runs  a 
tiny  rivulet  which  the  Emperor  caused  to  be  led 
through  the  valley  in  imitation  of  the  Perseus." 

"You  have  got  this  from  the  guide-book," 
said  the  Professor.  "False  Sibyl!  fill  me  this 
cup  with  water  from  your  mock  Perseus.  I 
must  just  add  a  dash  of  color." 

I  took  the  little  tin  cup  and  filled  it  for  him. 
When  I  came  back  he  desired  me  to  go  on. 

"  What  is  the  use  of  going  on,"  said  I,  "  if 
you  deny  my  inspiration  ?  No  Sibyl  ever  brooked 
incredulity." 

"  Tell  me  something  worth  hearing,  and  I 
will  believe  in  you  to  any  extent  you  please." 

"  Upon  your  honor  ?" 

"  Upon  my  honor  —  if  your  Sibylline  leaves 
are  not  stolen  from  Murray's  Hand-book." 

"  Be  silent,  then,  while  I  invoke  the  aid  of 
the  gods." 

The  Professor  mixed  a  great  pool  of  cobalt, 
and  laid  a  flat  wash  of  cloudless  sky  over  all 
the  upper  half  of  his  paper.  Then  humming 
an  unmusical  growl,  touched  in  the  shadow-sides 
of  his  ruins  with  a  warm  gray  which  seemed  at 
once  to  put  every  thing  in  its  place,  and  harmonize 
the  picture.  I,  in  the  mean  time,  strove  to  col- 
lect my  thoughts,  and  arrange  my  already  half- 
forgotten  learning. 

"  Come,  my  pupil,"  said  the  Professor,  "  you 
are  a  slow  prophetess." 

"  I  have  to  travel  back  through  eighteen  cen- 
turies," I  replied,  "  and  that  is  no  light  matter. 
Now  listen,  while  I  summon  up  remembrance  of 
things  past,  and  bring  before  your  eyes  the 
revels  of  the  Caesars!" 

The  Professor  put  his  brush  to  his  lips,  and 
blew  an  imaginary  trumpet.  I  proceeded  with 
my  narrative. 

"  Imagine,  0  learned  Apelles,  that  it  is  now 
the  tenth  hour  of  the  Roman  day.  There  has 
this  morning  been  a  chariot-race,  followed  by  a 
show  of  gladiators,  and  the  victors  have  just 
gone  down  through  the  valley  crowned  with 
palm  leaves  and  ribbons.  Now  we  hear  a  sound 
of  flutes  and  clarions.  A  company  of  the  Pre- 
torian  guard  advances,  followed  by  musicians 
and  fire-bearers,  after  whom  comes  the  Em- 
peror, clothed  in  a  long  white  robe  and  crowned 
with  roses.  He  is  followed  by  some  two  dozen 
Roman  nobles,  all  in  festive  dress ;  and  another 
company  of  guards  brings  up  the  rear.  They 
are  going  to  sup  in  the  Imperial  Banqueting- 
hall,  of  which  the  ruins  are  now  before  your 
eyes.     Imagine  that  hall " 

"Stop!"  cried  the  Professor.  "Those  are 
the  ruins  of  the  Thermae." 

"  They  are  called  so,  O  Apelles,  by  the  ignorant 
who  compile  guide-books,"  I  replied ;  "  but  I, 
the  Sibyl,  tell  thee  that  those  ruined  arches 
once  echoed  to  the  sounds  of  feasting.     See  the 


stuccoed  flutes  and  garlands,  the  amphorae,  the 
groups  of  revelers  yet  fresh  upon  the  hollow  of 
that  vault.  To  what  end  should  decorations 
such  as  these  be  moulded  upon  the  ceiUng  of  a 
bath-room?" 

"Humph!  There's  some  reason  in  that," 
admitted  he,  now  busy  upon  a  cluster  of  dock 
leaves  and  a  fallen  trunk  in  the  foreground. 

"Let  us  follow  the  Emperor,"  continued  I. 
"  Let  us  pass,  invisible,  through  the  guards  at 
the  portal,  and  the  crowd  of  Sicilian  cooks, 
pantomimists,  slaves,  and  dependents  in  the 
outer  hall.  Guided  by  the  sound  of  music,  let 
us  penetrate  to  the  coenaculum  itself  Here, 
on  semicircular  couches,  recline  the  Emperor 
and  his  guests,  their  hair  redolent  of  fragrant 
ointments,  their  fingers  covered  with  rings,  and 
their  jeweled  slippers  lying  beside  them  on  the 
floor.  Each  man  holds  in  his  left  hand  a  nap- 
kin with  a  gold  and  purple  fringe.  On  the  tables 
stand  small  images  of  the  gods.  At  the  lower 
end  of  the  room  is  an  elevated  stage,  on  which 
a  party  of  buifoons  are  performing  a  comic  in- 
terlude. The  visitors  play  at  dice  between  the 
courses.  Now  and  then,  through  revolving  com- 
partments in  the  ceiling,  flowers  and  perfumes 
are  showered  down  upon  the  feasters ;  while 
slaves  stand  by,  whose  duty  it  is  to  fan  away  the 
flies,  and  bring  fresh  towels  and  scented  water 
to  the  guests,  after' every  dish." 

"By  Thor  and  Woden!"  exclaimed  the  Pro- 
fessor, "  how  do  you  come  to  know  all  this  ?" 

"  The  feast  begins,"  said  I,  taking  no  notice  of 
the  interruption,  "to  the  sound  of  trumpets; 
and  slaves  carry  round  cups  of  Falernian  wine, 
flavored  with  honey.  Then  come  oysters  from 
the  Lucrine  lake,  cray-fish  from  Misenum,  mul- 
lets from  Baiae,  lampreys,  and  perhaps  a  stur- 
geon, which  is  weighed  alive  at  table,  allowed 
to  expire  before  the  eyes  of  the  guests,  and 
then  carried  off  to  the  kitchen,  presently  to  ap- 
pear again,  cooked  with  a  rich  sauce  of  wine  and 
pickles.  Then  come  dishes  of  nightingales, 
thrushes,  roasted  shrimps,  African  cockles,  Me- 
lian  cranes,  Ambracian  kid,  and  a  boar  from  the 
Umbrian  forests,  roasted  whole,  and  stuffed  with 
beef  and  veal.  This  is  carved  by  the  carptor^ 
with  pantomimic  gestures,  to  the  sound  of 
music." 

"  But  how  do  you  know  this  ?"  repeated  the 
Professor,  fairly  laying  down  his  brush  with  as- 
tonishment. 

"  Next  some  jars  of  rare  Massic  and  Chian 
wines  are  opened ;  a  libation  is  poured  out  to 
the  gods  ;  and  the  Emperor  pledges  his  guests. 
Then  enter  four  musicians  playing  on  double 
flutes,  followed  by  as  many  servants  crowned 
with  flowers.  They  bring  the  royal  dish  of  the 
entertainment — a  peacock  with  all  its  plumage 
displayed,  on  a  salver  garlanded  with  roses.  At 
this  sight,  the  guests  burst  into  murmurs  of  ap- 
plause, and  salute  the  Emperor.  The  buffoons 
now  retire,  and  a  couple  of  gladiators  make 
their  appearance  on  the  stage,  armed  with  hel-  i 
mets,  bucklers,  greaves,  and  short  swords.  The 
serious  business  of  supper  being  nOw  over,  and 
the  dessert  about  to  be  brought  on,  the  feasters 
have  leisure  to  enjoy  this  more  exciting  ainuse- 
ment.  Additional  cushions  are  brought ;  spiced 
wines  are  handed  round  ;  the  tables  are  cleared ; 
fresh  cloths  are  laid ;  the  guests  lean  back  ;  the 
Emperor  gives  the  signal,  and  the  gladiators 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


15Y 


begin  their  combat.  Now  pistachio  nuts,  dates, 
Venafran  olives,  Matian  apples,  pears,  grapes, 
dried  figs,  mushrooms,  sweet  cakes,  preserves, 
and  all  kinds  of  delicate  confectionery  moulded 
into  curious  and  graceful  devices,  are  placed 
upon  the  tables.  Conversation  becomes  ani- 
mated. A  gladiator  falls,  mortally  wounded,  the 
spectators  cry  '  hahet ! '  a  fresh  combatant  re- 
places him ;  and  the  Emperor  himself  deigns  to 
bet  upon  the  victor.  Thus  amid  bloodshed, 
dicing,  wine  and  feasting,  the  hours  pass  by, 
and  the  entertainment  draws  to  a  close.  Valu- 
able presents  are  then  distributed  to  the  guests. 
One  gets  a  precious  ring,  one  a  robe  of  Tyrian 
dye,  another  a  sketch  by  Parrhasius,  another  a 
bust  of  Hadrian  in  colored  marbles  ;  and  thus 
each  takes  his  leave,  enriched  and  feasted,  and 
pours  a  last  libation  to  the  health  of  the  Em- 
peror and  the  honor  of  the  gods."  ^ 

"  f  s  that  all  ?"  gasped  the  Professor. 

"  0  Apelles  !  the  Sibyl  hath  spoken." 

He  jumped  up  and  flourished  his  umbrella 
menacingly  before  my  eyes. 

"  Cmifess !"  cried  he.  "  Down  on  your  knees 
and  confess  directly  where  you  read  all  this ! 
Name  the  book,  the  author,  the  publisher  and 
the  price  !  Tell  every  thing  this  moment,  you 
impostor,  on  pain  of  death  !" 

"I  have  nothing  to  tell,"  replied  I,  com- 
posedly. 

"  False !  inconceivably  false !  Where  did  you 
read  it  ?" 

"  Nowhere." 

"Who  wrote  it?" 

"  Nobody." 

"  Have  you  invented  it  ?" 

"  By  no  means." 

"  Nowhere — nobody — by  no  means !  Sphinx ! 
Monster  of  negations !  Speak,  and  be  intelli- 
gible. If  thou  hast  neither  read  nor  invented 
these  things,  whence  thy  knowledge  of  them  ?" 

"  Inspiration." 

"  Humbug  !  humbug  !  humbug !" 

"  As  you  please,  mein  Professor,"  I  replied, 
quietly  smiling.     "  Is  the  sketch  finished  ?" 

The  Professor  flung  away  his  umbrella,  and 
resumed  his  seat  by  my  side. 

"Seriously,  meine  Schiilerinn,'"  said  he,  "I 
want  the  secret  of  your  learning.  I  know  you 
to  be  a  sensible  young  woman,  and  a  very  toler- 
able painter ;  but  a  savant  in  petticoats,  '  darkly, 
deeplv,  beautifully  blue.'  Pooh  !  it's  impos- 
sible V' 

"  Wonder  of  wonders  !  Apelles  quotes 
Byron  ?" 

"You  trifle  with  me,"  said  the  Professor, 
frowning  darkly.  "  You  do  not  choose  to 
speak.     Eh  ?■" 

"  Can  you  not  guess  why  ?"  I  asked,  turn- 
ing away  that  he  might  not  see  the  tears  in  my 
eyes.  "  Can  you  not  guess  that  I  trifle,  be- 
cause it  would  cost  me  so  much  pain  to  be  in 
earnest  ?" 

"  I — I  don't  understand,"  stammered  -he. 

"  Then  I  will  tell  you.  You  do  not  know, 
perhaps,  how  familiar  this  place  is  to  me.  I 
have  been  here  over  and  over  again,  in  —  in 
time  past,  I  once  staid  at  Tivoli  for  more 
than  a  week.  I  have  sketched  this  very  scene 
from  almost  the  same  point  of  view  as  yourself. 
I  know  every  ruin  in  the  place  by  heart — out- 
wardly, in  its  form  and  color ;  inwardly,  in  its 
legend  and  history.     The  outward,  I  gathered 


for  myself.  The  inward,  dear  friend,  I  acquired 
from  the  lips  of  one  who  had 

' made  a  general  survey 

Of  all  the  best  of  men's  best  knowledges, 
And  knew  so  much  as  ever  learning  knew.' 

One  to  whom  all  art,  all  poetry,  all  history  was 
dear  and  familiar— one " 

My  voice  failed,  and  I  covered  my  eyes  with 
my  hand.  The  Professor  coughed,  fidgeted, 
and  was  for  some  moments  silent.  When  he 
spoke  it  was  with  a  voluble  embarrassment 
quite  foreign  to  his  ordinary  manner. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  he.  "  I — I  was 
an  ass.  I  ought  to  have  guessed — I  might  have 
guessed.  If  I  am  a  fool,  I  can't  help  it.  You 
— you  see,  I  forget.  I  always  think  of  you  as 
my  little  scholar.  It  always  seems  to  me  that 
we  are  still  at  Zollenstrasse,  and — and  when  I 
look  at  you  and  talk  to  you,  I  never  remember 
that  you — perhaps  if  you  wore  a  widow's  dress, 
it  would  be  different ;  or  if  you  sometimes 
talked  about  your  late — but  I  beg  your  pardon. 
Of  course  it's  a  very  sad  subject,  and — and,  as 
I  said  before,  if  I  am  a  fool,  I  can't  help  it !" 

"You  are  my  best  friend  in  all  the  world," 
said  I,  putting  out  my  hand. 

He  shook  it,  as  if  it  had  been  a  pump-handle, 
and  blushed  purple  to  the  very  tips  of  his  great 
ears.  Then,  relapsing  into  sudden  misanthropy, 
said — 

"  Nonsense  !  All  men  are  fools,  and  all  wo- 
men are  hypocrites.  I  don't  believe  you  care  a 
groscfien  for  me.  Bi,  schweigen  Sie  I  I  won't 
hear  a  word  you  have  to  say.  Do  you  see  that 
man  on  the  top  of  those  arches  ?  I  wonder 
how  he  got  there.  What  a  famous  distance 
I  should  get  for  my  sketch  if  I  could  find  my 
way  up !" 

"  I  can  show  you  the  path,"  said  I.  "  It  lies 
round  behind  those  bushes.  You  must,  how- 
ever, follow  it  alone,  for  it  is  rough  climbing." 

He  gathered  up  his  sketching  traps,  and  I  led 
the  way,  pausing  at  the  foot  of  the  ascent,  which 
was  even  more  wild  and  inaccessible  than  when 
I  last  saw  it.  Leaving  him  there  to  fight  his 
way  through  the  brambles  as  well  as  he  could, 
I  then  strolled  back  into  the  valley,  and  fol- 
lowed the  little  rivulet,  as  it  gurgled  and  spark- 
led through  cresses  and  pebbles,  till  lost  among 
the  deep  grass  farther  down.  Little  rivulet  that 
had  been  flowing  on  thus  for  so  many  cen- 
turies, singing  the  same  low  song  forever  and 
ever  !  For  my  ears  that  song  had  but  one 
burthen*  What  to  me  were  the  Imperial  feet 
that  had  once  trodden  its  borders,  and  become 
dust  ?  What  to  me  were  the  ravages  of  Goth 
or  Gaul  ?  I  remembered  only  Hugh,  and  how 
we  had  wandered  there  together  in  the  sunlight 
of  two  short  years  ago.  I  plucked  a  little  red 
flower  from  the  bank,  and  watched  it  float  away 
with  the  stream.  "Is  it  not  thus,"  I  asked  my- 
self, "  that  a  life  floats  down  the  stream  of  time  ? 
Is  it  not  thus  that  those  whom  we  love  are 
snatched  from  our  embrace,  and  hurried  away 
forever  ?  To  what  shore,  oh  flower  ?  To  what 
sea,  oh  stream  ?    To  what  haven,  oh  my  heart  ?" 

It  was  one  of  those  moments  when  I  realized, 
in  all  its  bitterness,  the  thought  of  how,  on  this 
fair  earth,  we  two  could  never  meet  in  peace 
and  love  again  ;  and  it  smote  me  with  a  sense 
of  pain  "  too  deep  for  tears." 

The  Professor  came  back  covered  with  dusk 
and  scratches,  and  looking  much  the  worse  for 


158 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


his  excursion ;  but  delighted,  nevertheless,  with 
all  that  he  had  seen  and  sketched  from  the 
roof  of  the  Banqueting-hall.  And  now,  as  the 
day  was  advancing,  and  our  time  was  fast  ebb- 
ing away,  we  hastened  back,  found  our  vettura 
waiting  at  the  gate,  and  drove  on  through  the 
famous  olive-wood,  to  Tivoli.  As  the  town 
came  in  sight,  the  Professor  pulled  out  his 
watch,  shook  his  head,  and  sighed. 

"All  the  inns  are  detestable,"  said  he. 
"Heaven  only  knows  what  we  shall  get.  for 
dinner." 

"  Oh,  never  mind,"  I  replied,  "  What  does 
it  matter  ?" 

"Matter?"  said  he,  sharply.  "It  matters 
every  thing  in  this  infernal  country.  My  dinner 
has  been  the  misery  of  my  daily  life  ever  since 
I  have  been  in  Rome.  The  sight  of  the  trat- 
tore's  list  each  morning  drives  me.  mad.  I 
never  know  what  any  thing  means ;  and  when 
at  length  I  mark  off  three  or  four  things,  they 
generally  turn  out  to  be  loathsome  messes,  unfit 
for  any  but  a  Caliban.  Yesterday,  when  I  sat 
down  to  dinner,  I  found  I  had  ordered  nothing 
but  a  few  saucers,  and  some  scraps  of  half-raw 
potato,  swimming  in  oil  ?" 

"  Well,  I  promise  you  that  shall  not  be  the 
case  to-day,"  said  I,  smiling. 

"  Then  they  eat  such  unholy  things,"  grumbled 
he.  "What  do  you  think  I  saw  on  the  price- 
list  at  the  Lq)re  the  other  day.     It  ran  thus : — 

*  Beef— the  eye  of. 
Do. — the  tongue. 
Do. — the  ear. 
Do.— the  feet. 

Fancy  a  people  that  can  feed  on  such  offal  as 
this  !  What  wonder  that  art  dies  out  among 
them  ?  What  wonder  that  they  are  priest-rid- 
den and  degraded  ?  Do  you  beheve  that  Michael 
Angelo  and  Raffaelle  nourished  their  mighty 
thoughts  on  the  eyes  and  ears  of  Campagna  bul- 
locks ?    Faugh !" 

We  were  by  this  time  entering  the  dirty,  ruin- 
ous alleys  of  Tivoli,  followed  by  a  lively  crowd 
of  beggars. 

"  What  hotel,  signore  ?"  asked  the  driver. 

"  Hotel !"  growled  the  Professor.  "  Say  hovel. 
Take  us  to  the  Sibyl.  There,  if  we  are  starved, 
we  shall  at  least  have  something  to  look  at." 

So  we  drove  into  the  yard  of  the  Hotel  de  la 
Sibylle,  which  was  already  crowded  with  car- 
riages and  coachmen,  and  were  at  once  shown 
out  upon  the  terrace  overlooking  the  falls. 
Here,  at  a  long  table  in  the  shadow  of  the  love- 
liest of  Roman  temples,  sat  a  merry  party  of 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  dining  in  the  open  air. 
No  sooner,  however,  had  we  made  our  appear- 
ance, than  three  or  four  started  up  from  their 
seats,  and,  to  my  dismay,  burst  into  exclamations 
of  welcome. 

"  Why,  it's  Professor  Metz  !" 

"  What  lucky  chance  has  brought  you  here  to- 
day. Professor  Metz  ?" 

"  Just  in  time  to  dine  with  us,  too !" 

"  Well,  now,  this  is  famous  !" 

"  Couldn't  have  happened  better  !" 

To  all  of  which  the  Professor  replied  by  shak- 
ing hands  with  nearly  the  whole  party,  and  blurt- 
ing out  such  commonplaces  as  first  suggested 
themselves.  This  done,  he  came  back  to  me, 
looking  considerably  embarrassed. 

"What's  to  be  done?"  said  he.  "They 
want  us  to  dine  with  them  ;  and — and  they've 


such  a  capital  dinner  there,  furnished  by  Naz 
zari.  Every  thing  cold.  Brought  it  with  them 
from  Rome.  If  we  order  a  dinner  at  this  vile 
place,  we  shan't  be  able  to  eat  it.  What  do  you 
say  ?" 

"  I  say,  do  as  you  please,  my  kind  friend." 

"  Humph  !  Ha  !  But — but  you  don't  like 
strangers  —  I  know  you  don't  like  strangers ! 
Then  you  need  not  know  them  again  to-morrow, 
you  see,  unless  you  choose.  They  are  nearly  all 
artists.     Still,  if  it  wasn't  for  the  dinner " 

"  I  won't  condemn  you  to  die  by  starvation," 
said  I. 

"  Pm  afraid  I'm  selfish,"  hestitated  the  Pro- 
fessor. 

"  I  should  know  I  was,  if  I  allowed  you  to  re- 
fuse on  my  account." 

While  we  were  yet  wavering,  a  lady  left  the 
party,  and  came  toward  us.  Her  person  was 
large;  her  complexion  fair;  her  face  square, 
massive,  full  of  power  and  frankness,  and  lit  by 
a  pair  of  wondrous  eyes  that  seemed  to  flash  and 
vary  with  every  word  she  uttered. 

"  Will  it  not  be  possible,  Herr  Metz,"  said  she, 
"  to  prevail  upon  your  friend  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes — I — that  is,  she — permit  me  to  in- 
troduce Miss  Dunham — Mrs.  Carlyon,"  stam- 
mered the  Professor. 

Miss  Dunham  put  out  her  hand  with  the  sun- 
niest smile  in  the  world,  and  said : — 

"  You  are  very  welcome.  Our  tables  are  '  but 
coldly  furnished  forth ;'  yet  if  you  will  balance 
our  good-will  against  our  baked  meats,  both 
shall  be  heartily  at  your  service." 

I  thanked  and  followed  her,  while  the  Profes- 
sor whispered  hastily  in  my  ear : — 

"  Miss  Dunham,  you  know — the  celebrated 
American  tragedian.  One  of  the  most  charm- 
ing women  in  Rome." 

Miss  Dunham  resumed  her  seat  at  the  head  of 
the  table,  made  room  for  me  at  her  right  hand, 
and  introduced  me  to  the  rest  of  the  company. 
The  Professor  found  a  place  at  the  farther  end  ; 
and  thus  I  found  myself,  for  the  first  time  since  the 
fatal  night  of  the  ball  at  Ashley  Park,  surround- 
ed by  strangers,  and  listening  to  a  whirl  of  con- 
versation and  laughter.  Confused,  bewildered, 
feeling  strangely  sad  and  out  of  place,  I  sat  si- 
lently by,,  replying  in  monosyllables  when  spoken 
to,  and  scarcely  able  at  first  to  disentangle  the 
separate  threads  of  talk.  Presently,  as  my  em- 
barrassment subsided,  I  found  that  my  neighbors 
at  the  upper  end  of  the  table  were  chiefly  occu- 
pied with  the  present  state  of  Roman  art. 

"  That  which  shocks  me  most,"  said  Miss  Dun- 
ham, "  is  the  fatal  influence  of  Rome  upon  our 
young  artists.  Men  who  in  London  or  New- York 
showed  vigor  and  originality,  here  either  sink 
into  classical  imbecility,  or  turn  manufacturers  of 
busts  and  medallions." 

"  Nothing  more  easily  accounted  for,"  replied 
a  handsome  young  man  with  an  open  collar  and 
long  hair,  at  tne  opposite  side  of  the  table.  "  A 
fellow  can  but  choose  between  the  antique'  and 
the  modern.  The  antique  drives  him  to  despair  ; 
and  all  he  does  is  miserable  imitation.  The  mod- 
ern is  a  market,  governed  by  the  almighty  dol- 
lar." 

"  If  the  artist  did  his  duty,  he  might  make 
that  market  what  he  pleased,"  said  a  bright-faced 
girl,  whom  they  called  Charlie.  "  It  is  his  busi- 
ness to  elevate  the  public,  taste." 

"  All  very  well  when  he  has  a  fixed  public  to 


I 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


159 


deal  with,"  replied  the  young  man  ;  "  but  the 
public  of  Rome  is  a  mere  fluctuating  tide  of 
tourists,  most  of  whom  know  no  more  about  art 
than  about  Lindley  Murray — wretches  who  prefer 
a  marble  record  of  their  own  ugliness  to  the 
bust  of  the  young  Augustus ;  and  see  a  finer 
study  of  color  in  a  yard  of  Tartan  than  in  a  mas- 
terpiece of  Titian." 

"  Fenwarne,"  said  Miss  Dunham,  "  you  grow 
misanthropic.  That  unsold  Eve  that  I  saw  in 
your  studio  yesterday  will  prove  the  ruin  of  you. 
Remember  the  fall." 

"  I'd  rather  put  the  Eve  into  the  fire  than  sell 
her  to  some  of  your  countrymen,"  said  the 
painter,  coloring.  "  A  Yankee  monster  asked 
me  the  other  day  what  I  would  take  for — '  the 
gal  eating  oranges.' " 

■  "  I  can  tell  you  a  better  story  than  that,"  ob- 
served a  quiet  man  at  the  lower  end  of  the^ble. 
"  An  American  capitalist  came  to  me  not  many 
months  since,  and  opened  the  conversation  by 
saying — '  Sir,  your  name  is  Robson.'  I  admitted 
that  my  name  was  Robson.  '  And  you  air  a  Stat- 
uary,' said  he.  I  admitted  this  fact  also,  substi- 
tuting sculptor.  '  Sir,'  continued  he,  '  I  will 
give  you  a  commission.'  I  bowed,  and  begged 
him  to  be  seated.  '  Mr.  Robson,  sir,'  said  he, 
drawing  a  paper  from  his  pocket,  '  I  am  a  re- 
.  markable  man.  I  was  born  in  the  en-Vi-rons  of 
Boston  city,  and  began  life  by  selling  matches 
at  five  cents  the  bunch.  I  am  worth,  at  this  mo- 
ment, one  million  o'  dollars.'  I  bowed  again, 
and  said  I  was  glad  to  hear  it.  '  Sir,'  he  went 
on  to  say,  '  how  I  aimed  that  million  o'  dollars 
— how  from  selling  matches  I  came  to  running 
of  errands ;  to  taking  care  of  a  boss ;  to  trading  in 
dogs,  tobaccos,  cottons,  corns,  and  sugars ;  and 
how  I  came  to  be  the  man  I  am,  you'll  find  all 
made  out  on  this  paper,  dates  and  facts  correct. 
Sir  it's  a  very  Re-markable  statement.'  I  re- 
plied that  I  had  no  doubt  of  it ;  but  that  I  could 
not  quite  see  what  it  had  to  do  with  the  matter 
in  hand.  '  Sir,'  said  my  capitalist,  '  every  thing. 
I  wish,  sir,  to  per-petuate  my  name.  You  have 
a  very  pretty  thing,  sir,  here  in  Rome — a  pillar 
with  a  Pro-cession  twisting  up  all  around  it,  and 
a  figger  up  at  top.  I  think  you  call  it  Trajan's 
column.  Now,  Mr.  Robson,  sir,  I  wish  you  to 
make  me  one  exactly  like  it — same  hight,  same 
size,  and  money  no  object.  You  shall  re-present 
my  career  in  all  my  va-ri-ous  trades  a-twisting 
round  the  column,  beginning  with  the  small  chap 
selling  matches  at  five  cents  the  bundle,  and  end- 
ing with  a  full  length  figger  of  me  on  the  sum- 
mit, with  one  hand,  thus,  in  my  Bo-som,  and  the 
other  under  my  coat-tails  !" 

"  Won't  do  !  won't  do  !"  laughed  a  chorus  of 
skeptics.  "  A  palpable  invention,  Robson !  Too 
good  to  be  true." 

"  Does  any  b-b-b-body  know  what  is  to  be 
done  at  the  artist's  fete  this  year?"  asked  a  slim 
youth  with  blue  glasses  and  a  stutter.  "  I  c-c- 
can't  find  out  any  thing  ab-b-b-bout  it." 

"There's  nothing  decided  yet,"  replied  Mr. 
Penwarne.  "Murray  was  talking  about  a  tra- 
vestie  of  Sardanapalus  the  other  day ;  but  the 
notion  didn't  seem  to  be  popular." 

"Why  not  pay  the  'tedious-brief  scene'  of 
Pyramus  and  Thisbe?"  suggested  Miss  Dun- 
ham. 

*'  Why  not  play  the  whole  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream  ?"  said  another  lady.  "  It  needs  no 
scenery  that  the  Campagna  will  not  furnish." 


"Then  Charlie  should  play  Puck,"  said  Miss 
Dunham,  smiling. 

"  And  yourself,  Oberon,"  rejoined  the  young 
girl. 

"I  should  wonderfully  like  to  play  B-b-b- 
bottom,"  stammered  the  youth  in  the  specta- 
cles. 

"  Yes,  it  would  suit  you  capitally,"  said  Pen- 
warne ;  "  and  no  expense  for  the  head." 

"  It  has  always  seemed  to  me,"  observed  an 
intelligent-looking  man  who  had  not  spoken  be- 
fore, "  that  there  is  a  poetical  inconsistency  in 
the  remarks  made  by  Bottom,  after  he  is  '  trans- 
lated.' When  he  is  introduced  to  Mustard-seed 
he  makes  a  pungent  allusion  to  ox-beef.  When 
Titania  presses  him  to  eat,  he  asks  for  a  peck  of 
provender.  How  are  these  to  be  reconciled? 
If  he  thinks  as  an  ass,  he  would  know  nothing 
of  beef  and  mustard.  If  he  thinks  as  a  man,  he 
would  not  ask  for  oats." 

"  You  can  only  reconcile  it  by  remembering 
that  he  is  both  a  man  and  an  ass,"  replied  Miss 
Dunham.    "  No  uncommon  phenomenon  either." 

"  You  might  get  up  an  annual  exhibition, 
I  should  fancy,  in  one  of  the  private  galleries," 
said  the  Professor,  in  answer  to  some  observa- 
tion which  I  had  not  heard.  "  Where  no  com- 
parisons can  be  made,  the  fire  of  emulation 
smoulders.  A  man  ought  to  see  his  own  works 
beside  those  of  his  cotemporaries  at  least  once 
in  every  two  or  three  years." 

"  We  would  gladly  do  so,  if  we  could,"  re- 
plied the  gentleman  with  whom  he  was  convers- 
ing ;  "  but  a  thousand  difficulties  are  thrown  in 
our  way  by  the  government  whenever  it  is  pro- 
posed. We  all  feel  the  want  of  an  exhibition 
room.  We  should  be  able  to  undertake  larger 
works,  if  we  had  a  large  place  in  which  to  hang 
them.  It  is  just  this  advantage  that  causes  the 
historical  school  to  be  almost  abandoned  by 
our  young  artists,  and  drives  so  many  into  the 
realistic  style." 

"Realistic!  historical]"  repeated  the  Profes- 
sor, impatiently.  "  Nonsense,  nonsense,  young 
man !  All  true  art  is  a  form  of  history.  If  you 
paint  but  a  tree,  or  a  face,  or  a  boat,  faithfully 
— that  is  history.  Don't  lose  yourself  in  a  maze 
of  words.  Painting  big  pictures  of  medieval 
men  and  women  from  hired  models  in  hired 
costumes,  is  not  history.  The  real  is  your  only 
historic  ;  and  all  art,  to  be  beautiful,  must  first 
be  true." 

"  But  the  best  critics " 

"  Critics  be  hanged !"  interrupted  the  Pro- 
fessor, savagely.  "  God  sent  art,  and  the  devil 
sent  critics.  Where  were  the  critics  when 
Raffaelle  painted  his  Transfiguration,  and  Mi- 
chael Angelo  worked  in  the  Sistine  Chapel? 
In  those  days,  there  were  no  critics.  The  best 
pictures  the  world  ever  saw  were  painted  before 
the  brood  existed.  Critics,  indeed  I  Vultures 
feeding  on  the  corpse  of  ancient  art — fungi 
flourishing  among  ruins — ghouls  !" 

"  Will  any  b-b-body  go  down  to  see  the  falls  ?" 
asked  the  youth  in  the  spectacles. 

"  No  one  who  objects  to  being  left  behind," 
replied  Miss  Dunham,  who  was  evidently  the 
leader  of  the  party.  "It  is  half-past  four 
already,  and  we  have  all  our  miles  before  us. 
The  night-mists  will  have  risen,  as  it  is,  before 
we  are  half  across  the  Campagna." 

"  No  danger  of  B-b-b-banditti,  I  suppose?" 

"  Banditti  ?"  repeated  Mr.   Penwarne,   care- 


160 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


lessly;  "why,  I  fear  not.  There  are  a  few- 
hordes  aboiit ;  but  they  chiefly  haunt  the  Flor- 
entine and  Neapolitan  roads.  Fancy  falling  in 
with  a  Fra  Diavolo  and  his  gang — wouldn't  it  be 
exciting  ?" 

"  I  shouldn't  f-f-f-fancy  it  at  all,"  stammered 
the  other,  looking  very  uncomfortable. 

"  Nonsense  !  think  of  the  romance  of  it." 

"  B-b-b-bother  the  romance  of  it,"  replied  the 
stammerer,  upon  whose  mind  was  dawning  a 
dim  consciousness  of  banter.  "  R-r-r-robbery 
and  murder  are  acquired  tastes,  and  I  don't 
p-p-possess  them." 

The  al  fresco  dinner  was  now  over;  the 
order  was  given  for  putting  in  the  horses ;  and 
the  gentlemen  began  gathering  the  knives, 
glasses,  and  unemptied  bottles  into  two  large 
baskets.  In  the  mean  time  we  made  the  tour 
of  the  little  temple,  and  looked  down  upon  the 
plunging  waters  of  the  Cascatelle,  the  distant  roar 
of  which  had  accompanied  our  voices  all  dinner- 
time, like  a  concert  of  solemn  instruments. 

"  I  wish  I  had  gone  to  the  b-b-bottom,"  said 
the  stammerer  regretfully,  as  he  leaned  over  the 
parapet. 

"  I  wish  you  had,  with  all  my  heart,"  replied 
Penwarne. 

A  few  minutes  more,  and  we  were  all  on  our 
road  back  to  Rome.  Mr.  Robson  and  Mr.  Pen- 
warne shared  our  carriage,  and  chatted  of  Ital- 
ian politics,  books,  art,  and  artist-gossip  all  the 
way ;  and  as  we  went  along,  the  sun  set,  and  the 
mountains  changed  from  rose-color  to  amethyst, 
and  from  amethyst  to  a  cold  and  wintry  gray. 


CHAPTER   LVI 


THE   PROFESSOR. 


"  Sweetest  nut  hath  sourest  rind."— As  You  Like  It. 

I  HAD  been  all  day,  copying  in  the  Sciarra 
Palace,  and  was  cowering  over  my  little  wood 
fire  after  dinner,  when  the  Professor  walked  in, 
unannounced,  and  sat  down  at  the  opposite  side 
of  the  hearth. 

"  The  evenings  are  still  cold,"  said  he.  "  I 
am  glad  you  have  a  fire." 

"  They  are  very  cold,"  I  replied,  throwing  on 
a  couple  of  pine  cones,  which  blazed  up  immedi- 
ately in  a  wavering  pyramid  of  flame. 

"  That's  cheerful,"  said  the  Professor,  approv- 
ingly. 

"  So  cheerful  that  I  only  wish  it  were  possible 
to  bear  it  all  through  the  summer.  There  is  real 
companionship  in  a  fire." 

"You  are  lonely  here?" 

"Sometimes." 

He  stirred  uneasily  in  his  chair,  and  stared  at 
the  fire. 

"  I  am  not  more  lonely,"  I  said,  after  a  long 
pause,  "  than  I  should  be  elsewhere.  You  must 
not  suppose,  kind  friend,  that  I  do  not  like  the 
place." 

"  That's  well,"  he  said  ;  and  sighed. 

And  then  we  were  both  silent  again. 

"  Rome  is  a  melancholy  place,"  he  observed, 
after  some  five  minutes'  interval. 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  think  so.  It  is  melan- 
choly, perhaps,  to  the  heavy-hearted,  in  the 
sense  that  all  visible  history  is  melancholy ; 


but  to  those  who  are  happy,  it  is- one  of  the 
most  charming  places  in  the  world." 

The  Professor  looked  up,  sharply. 

"  Your  definition  ?"  said  he. 

"Of  what?" 

"Of  visible  history.'  What  do  you  mean  by 
it  ?  Ruins,  monuments,  records  of  past  genera- 
tions ?" 

"  Yes,  precisely." 

"  Humph  !  And  do  you  suppose  that  a  pair 
of  honeymoon  lovers  would  find  the  Appian 
Way  a  lively  place  of  resort  ?" 

"  We  were  speaking  of  Rome,  Herr  Professor. 
Not  of  the  road  from  Rome  to  Heaven." 

"  A  pretty  idea,"  said  he,  smiling  ;  "  but  of 
doubtful  application.  Not  many  of  those  old 
Romans,  I  fancy,  went  to  Heaven.  Quite  the 
reverse." 

And  then  the  conversation  dropped  again. 

"  I — I  must  go,  meine  Schillerinn,''^  he  said,  by 
and  by. 

"Not  till  I  have  made  you  a  cup  of  coffee?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  That's  not  what  I  mean.  I  must  go  back  to 
Germany." 

"  Alas  !  when !" 

"  The  day  after  to-morrow  ;  or — or,  perhaps, 
to-morrow." 

"  So  soon  ?" 

"Ay,  so  soon." 

"  How  much  more  lonely  it  will  be  when  you 
are  gone  !"  I  said,  sadly. 

He  stared  gloomily  at  the  fire,  and  made  no 
reply. 

"  You — you  will  sometimes  take  the  trouble 
to  write  to  me,  mein  Professor  ?" 

"Ay — surely." 

Another  long  silence. 

"  I  have  one  favor  to  beg  from  you,"  I  began, 
at  length.  "  That  is  to  say,  one  more  favor,  in 
addition  to  so  many." 

"  You  have  only  to  name  it,  child,"  said  he, 
still  with  the  same  intent  look. 

"  Then  I — I  want  you  to  promise  me  some- 
thing." 

"  I  promise.     What  is  it  ?" 

"  To  keep  my  name,  my  place  of  residence, 
my  very  existence  secret.  To  deliver  over  to 
no  living  soul  the  key  of  my  seclusion.  To  deny 
me,  if  need  be,  to  my  own  father." 

He  looked  up  with  a  startled  flash  in  his  eyes. 

"  To  your  own  father  ?"  he  exclaimed. 

"  To  my  own  father — my  own  sister — all  who 
ever  knew  me.  To — to  Mr.  Farquhar,  if  he 
should  visit  ZoUenstrasse  again." 

"Mr.  Farquhar  ?"  said  he,  quickly.  "The 
rich  Englishman  who " 

"  The  same.     Do  you  promise  this  ?" 

"  I  have  promised,"  he  replied,  sinking  back 
into  his  former  attitude. 

"  Why  I  desire  it,"  I  continued,  falteringly, 
"  is — is  of  no  consequence  to  any  one  but  myself. 
I  am  not  happy.  I  look  back  upon  a  very 
dreary  past,  and  forward  to  a  very  dreary  future. 
My  only  prayer  now  is  for  solitude.  Let  me  be 
dead  to  all  the  world  except  yourself — dead  and 
buried." 

"  Be  it  so,"  he  said.  "  I  will  keep  your 
secret  faithfully." 

"  And — you  are  not  vexed  that  I  withhold  my 
motive  from  you  ?" 

"Not  in  the  least." 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


161 


I  put  out  my  hand  to  him  in  silent  thanks. 
He  took  it ;  held  it  loosely  for  a  moment,  as  if 
he  did  not  quite  know  what  he  ought  to  do  with 
it ;  and  then  dropped  it. 

"  Do  you  really  think  you  shall  miss  me?"  he 
.  said,  after  another  pause. 

"  Can  you  ask  the  question  ?" 
"  I'm  but  an  old  bear." 
"  You  are  the  best  friend — the  only  friend,  I 
have." 

"  I  would  stay  if  I  could,"  he  continued,  pull- 
ing contemplatively  at  his  moustache.  ,"  If  I 
gave  up  the  Art-directorship  and  settled  here  in 
Rome,  I  might,  perhaps,  manage  it." 

"  Gave  up  the  Art-directorship  I"  I  repeated, 
with  incredulous  amazement.  "  You  can  not  be 
serious  ?" 

"  Humph  !  the  Art-directorship  is, more  honor 
than  profit,  and  more  plague  than  either^  The 
salary  is  only  twelve  hundred  florins  a  year." 

"  But  the  Academy — the  Grand  Duke — what 
would  they  do  without  you  ?  How  could  ypu 
endure  to  live  out  of  Germany  ?" 

"  I  should  do  more  for  my  own  fame,"  said  he. 
"  True — you  would  paint  more  pictures." 
"  And  I  should  not  be  leaving  you  alone  here 
in  Rome." 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  put  that  thought  aside  ! 
If  you  take  such  an  important  step,  my  dear 
friend,  let  it  be  in  consideration  of  your  own 
prosperity  and  happiness  only." 

"  As  far  as  my  prosperity  is  concerned,  I 
should  do  well  enough,  no  doubt.  Whenever  I 
have  time  to  paint  a  picture,  it  sells  at  once. 
Besides,  I  have  a  little  money  put  by.  Then  as 
for  my  happiness,  I — why,  the  fact  is,  melne 
Schulerinn,  I'm  just  as  lonely  as  yourself,  and — 

and  I  have  no  ties — and why  do  you  suppose 

I  took  you  the  other  day  to  Tivoli  ?" 

"  To  give  me  pleasure,  I  am  sure  ;  though  I 
fear  vou  could  ill  spare  the  tune." 
"Not  a  bit  of  it." 

"  Well,  then,  to  give  yourself  pleasure." 
"Not  a  bit  of  it." 

"  Oh,  in  that  case  I  give  up  guessing." 
"  To — to  ask  you  a  question,  gnddlge  Frdulein.'" 
"  A  question  ?    Nay,  you  are  jesting." 
He  shook  his  head,  and  sat  tugging  at  his 
moustache  as  if  he  meant  to  pull  it  off. 
"  I'm  serious,"  said  he. 
"  But  what  question?" 

"One  that  I  hadn't  courage  to  put  to  you, 
after  all.     Can't  you  guess  it  ?" 

"  Not  in  the  very  least ;  but  if  it  be  any  thing 
that  I  can  do  for  you — any  thing  in  this  wide 

world,  no  matter  how  difficult,  or " 

"No,  no,  DO — nothing  of  the  kind.  Bah  I 
what  a  fool  I  am  !" 

"  But  why  do  you  hesitate  ?" 
"  Because — because  something  tells  me  that  I 
had  better  hold  my  tongue.  And  yet — I  hate 
the  thought  of  your  toiling  here  year  after  year, 
with  no  one  to  work  for  you  or  watch  over  you. 
You're  young,  and  you're  poor,  and  you're — 
you're  pretty ;  and  the  world  will  come  hard  to 
you  in  many  ways  that  you've  not  yet  thought 
of.  You  want  some  one  to  take  care  of  you. 
I'm — I'm  a  disagreeable  old  fellow — trough  and 
gruff,  and  tough  as  a  bear ;  but — will  you  marry 
me?" 

Marry  him!     Marry  the  Professor  I     Were 
my  senses  deceiving  me  ? 
K 


"  I — I  don't  expect  you  to  love  me,"  he  went 
on,  hastily.  "I  know  that  isn't  possible.  I 
quite  understand  that  your  heart  is  buried  with 
the  husband  you  have  lost.  But  if  you  can 
esteem  me,  take  me  for  what  I  am,  and  put  up 
with  my  companionship  for  life,  why — just  say 
so  at  once,  and  let  us  make  an  end  of  the  matter." 

"  If  I  thought  that  you  loved  me,  my  kind 
friend,"  I  began,  "  and  if " 

"  I  do  love  you,"  interrupted  he,  with  his  eyes 
still  fixed  unwaveringly  upon  the  fire. 

"  Yes,  I  know  you  do,  as  a  dear  friend  ;  but 
if  I  thought  you  loved  me  as  a  lover- " 

"Well?  If  you  thought  I  loved  you  as  a 
lover: — what  then  ?" 

"  Then  I  should  have  one  more  bitter  grief  to 
bear  ;  because  I  could  never  be  your  wife." 

"  I  expected  this,"  he  muttered,  more  to  him- 
self than  me. 

"  I  can  not  tell  you  why.  It  makes  part  oi 
my  unhappy  secret ;  but " 

"  But  I  know  why,"  said  he,  with  an  impatient 
movement.  "  Because  I  aijj  old,  and  gray,  and 
ugly." 

"  Before  heaven,  no  I" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  Do  you  not  believe  me  ?" 

"  I  don't  believe  that  the  Beauty  would  ever 
have  loved  the  Beast,  if  he  had  not  turned  into 
a  handsome  prince  at  last." 

"  Alas !  you  did  not  ask  me  for  love,  two 
minutes  since.  You  asked  only  for  my  hand, 
and  my  esteem.  My  esteem  you  know  you 
have — nay,  more ;  my  warmest  gratitude — my 
friendliest  affection." 

"Then  why " 

"  Do  not  ask  me  why  !  Is  it  not  enough  if 
I  say  that  it  is  impossible  ?" 

"  Oh,  it  is  quite  enough,"  he  replied  bitterly. 

I  started  up,  stung  by  his  incredulity. 

"Ungenerous!"  I  exclaimed.  "Ungenerous 
and  unkind !  Know,  then,  if  you  mil  know  it, 
that  I  am  no  widow.  He  whom  I  wedded,  lives. 
He  deceived  me — I  fled  from  him  I  have 
neither  hand  nor  heart  to  give.  Now  you  know 
all.     Are  you  satisfied  ?" 

He  looked  up,  for  the  first  time ;  and  his  eyes 
met  mine.     He  rose. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said;  so  softly  that 
his  breath  seemed  to  tremble,  and  not  his  voice. 
"I  beg  your  pardon.  I  was  greatly  in  the 
wrong." 

"  You  were,  indeed  !" 

"  You  will  forgive  me  before  I  go  ?  You  will 
shake  hands  with  me?" 

I  put  out  my  hand,  somewhat  reluctantly. 
He  took  it  between  both  his  own.  They  were 
damp,  and  cold,  and  trembled  palpably. 

"  Good-by,"  he  said. 

"  Good-by." 

He  went  toward  the  door,  paused  half-way, 
and  stood  irresolute. 

"  We  part  friends^  surely  ?"  he  asked,  almost 
in  a  whisper. 

"  Friends  1"  I  repeated,  the  last  shade  of  vexa- 
tion vanishing  in  an  instant.     "  The  best  and  . 
truest  friends  in  all  the  world.    Never  doubt  it, 
while  we  both  live  I" 

"  Thank  you,,"  he  said ;  and  moved  a  step 
farther. 

"  And  you  will  not  leave  Rome  to-morrow  ? 
You  will  come  and  see  me  again  ?" 


162 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


*'  Well — I  will  not  leave  Rome  to-morrow," 
he  replied,  after  a  moment's  hesitation. 

There  was  something  strange  in  his  manner ; 
something  that- 1  could  not  entirely  understand, 

"You  would  not,  surely,  be  here  another 
whole  day  without  seeing  me  ?"  I  persisted. 

He  put  his  hand  to  his  brow,  as  if  in  pain. 

"  No,  no,"  he  said.  *'  I  will  not  be  in  Rome 
another  day  without  seeing  you.  Good-by — 
God  bless  you." 

He  made  but  one  step  to  the  threshold  — 
looked  back  with  a  face,  oh,  so  pale ! — moved 
his  lips  without  uttering  any  sound ;  and  was 
gone. 

I  listened  to  his  footsteps  going  down  the 
stairs,  and  then  went  back  to  my  seat  by  the  fire. 
His  empty  chair  stood  opposite.  The  pine-cones, 
had  long  since  burnt  to  ashes,  and  my  little  room 
looked  lonelier  than  ever.  I  sat  with  clasped 
hands,  sadly  thinking. 

"Alas !"  I  said  to  myself.  "  Is  this  to  cost  me 
the  only  friend  I  had  ?  Shall  we  ever  be  the 
same  again  ?  Wil4  not  something,  henceforth, 
be  gone  from  our  friendship — something  from 
the  pleasant  tenor  of  our  intercourse  ?  Poor  as 
I  was  before  this  night,  am  I  now  poorer  still  ? 
God  grant  that  it  may  not  be  so.  He  did  not 
love  me.  It  is  not  possible  that  he  should  love 
me!  Seeing  me  so  desolate,  he  generously 
sought  the  right  to  protect  me.  Good,  chival- 
rous, gentle  heart !  He  knows  now  that  that 
right  can  never  be  his  ;  and  he  knows  it  without 
offense  to  his  pride,  or  pain  to  his  friendship. 
Then  why  can  we  not  meet  to-morrow,  as  if  this 
interview  had  never  been  ?     If,  indeed,  he  had 

really  loved  me but  he  did  not.    No,  he 

certainly  did  not  love  me!" 

Having  reasoned  myself  into  this  persuasion, 
I  alternately  reproached  myself  for  the  anger 
into  which  I  had  been  betrayed,  and  consoled 
myself  by  thinking  of  all  that  I  would  say  to 
him  on  the  morrow,  before  parting.  In  the 
midst  of  my  reverie,  Goody  came  in  with  the 
coffee. 

"  My  blessed  lamb,"  said  she,  looking  strange- 
ly disturbed;  "  nothing's  the  matter,  is  there  ? 
Just  tell  me  if  any  thing's  the  matter,  my 
deary  ?" 

"  No — that  is  to  say,  not  much.  Why  do  you 
ask?" 

"  Because — ^because,  my  dear  lamb,  it's  given 
me  such  a  turn,  that  I'm  all  of  a  tremble." 

"  What  has  given  you  a  turn  ?"  I  asked, 
quickly.     "  Is  any  thing  wrong  ?" 

"  I — I  don't  know,  my  deary.  I  suppose  so ; 
.^   else  why  should  he  be  taking  on  like  that?" 

"He?     Who?     The  Professor  ?" 

"  To  be  sure,  deary.  Who  else  ?  Then,  you 
see,  I  didn't  know  him  at  first,  coming  upon 
him  inf  the  dark,  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase." 

"  When  was  this  ?" 

"Not  two  minutes  ago,  as  I  was  bringing  in 
the  sugar  for  your  coffee,  darhng." 

"  Not  two  minutes  ago  ?"  I  repeated,  going 
toward  the  door.     "  Then  he  is  there  still !" 

"  No,  no,  my  lamb ;  he's  far  enough  by  this 
time.  He  just  pulled  his  hat  over  his  eyes  and 
ran  away  like  a  madman,  when  he  saw  me." 

"  But  what  was  he  doing.  Goody  ?" 

"Doing,  my  deary?  Just  leaning  his  poor 
head  down  upon  the  banisters,  and  sobbing  fit  to 
break  his  heart" 


My  own  heart  sank  within  me.  I  turned  cold 
from  head  to  foot.  Oh,  was  it  love,  then,  after 
all? 

The  next  morning  I  found  a  note  on  my 
breakfast  table,  containing  these  words  : — 

"  By  the  time  this  reaches  you,  I  shall  be 
many  leagues  away.  I  keep  my  word.  I  do 
not  leave  Rome  '  to-morrow ;'  I  leave  to-night, 
by  the  courier.  I  feel  that  it  is  best.  I  do  not 
wish  to  see  you  again,  till  this  dream  has  become 
a  painless  memory.  I  did  love  you.  I  do  love 
you.  ^  It  is  the  first,  last,  only  love  of  my  hfe. 
Let  this  truth  excuse  my  presumption,  and  be 
then  forgotten.  To  love  you  is  now  a  crime,  to 
be  lived  down  and  expiated.  When  I  feel  that 
I  have  conquered,  and  dare  dwell  in  your  pres- 
ence again,  I  will  return  to  Rome  and  watch 
over  you  till  I  die.  I  have  left  a  balance  of  a 
few  hundred  scudi  at  Pakenham's  bank,  which  I 
entreat  you  to  borrow  if  you  need  money.  I 
have  entered  it  in  your  name,  to  save  trouble ; 
and  you  shall  pay  it  back  by  and  by,  when  you 
are  prosperous.     God  bless  you  I" 


CHAPTER  LYII. 

THE   SECRET   THAT   CAME   WITH   THE  SUMMER. 

"  Mat  bien  vestu  d'habit  reverdissant 
Sem6  de  fleurs." — Francois  I. 

The  spring  came  ;  the  languid,  fragrant,  joy- 
ous Italian  spring,  all  sunshine  and  perfume,  and 
singing  of  birds,  and  blossoming  of  flowers. 
The  Easter  festivals  were  past,  and  the  strangers 
dispersed  and  gone.  The  snow  faded  suddenly 
from  the  summit  of  Soracte.  The  Colosseum 
hung  out  its  banners  of  fresh  green.  The  Cam- 
pagna  glowed  under  the  midday  sun,  like  a  Per- 
sian carpet — one  wilderness  of  poppies  and  hare- 
bells, buttercups,  daisies,  wild  convolvuli,  and  pur- 
ple hyacinths.  Every  crumbling  ruin  burst  into 
blossom,  like  a  garden.  Every  cultivated  patch 
within  the  city  walls,  ran  over,  as  it  were,  spon- 
taneously, with  the  delicious  products  of  the 
spring.  Every  stall  at  the  shady  corner  of  every 
quiet  piazza  was  piled  high  with  early  fruits  ;  and 
the  flower-girls  sat  all  day  long  on  the  steps  of 
the  Trinita  de'  Monti.  Even  the  sullen  pulses 
of  the  Tiber  seemed  stirred  by  a  more  genial 
current  as  they  eddied  round  the  broken  piers 
of  the  Ponte  Rotto.  Even  the  solemn  sepul- 
chers  of  the  Appian  Way  put  forth  long  feathery 
grasses  from  each  mouldering  cranny,  and  the 
wild  eglantine  struck  root  among  the  shattered 
urns  of  the  road-side  columbarium.  Now,  too, 
the  transparent  nights,  all  spangled  with  fire- 
flies, were  even  more  balmy  than  the  days.  And 
now  the  moon  shone  down  on  troops  of  fleld-la- 
borers  encamped  under  the  open  sky  against  the 
city  walls  ;  and  the  nightingales  sang  as  if  in- 
spired, among  the  shadowy  cypresses  of  the 
Protestant  burial-ground. 

A  happy,  gentle  time,  fruitful  in  promise  and 
tender  in  peace  1 — a  gracious  time,  full  of  balm 
for  wounded  hearts,  and  hope  for  troubled  souls 
> — a  time  when  the  weariest  sufferer  was  for  a 
moment  at  rest,  and  the  bitterest  questions  were 
hushed  on  the  hps  of  the  despairing !  A  blessed, 
blessed  time,  never  to  be  recalled  without  tears 
of  prayer  and  thanksgiving  ! 

It  had  been  first  a  doubt— then  a  hope — ^now 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY.    . 


163 


a  certainty.     It  had  haunted  me  for  months,  by 
day  and  night,  at  my  worlc,  and  in  my  dreams. 
It  had  flashed  upon  me,  quite  suddenly,  when  I 
was  not  alone,  making  my  heart  beat,  and  my 
cheek  vary  from  pale  to  crimson.     It  had  waked 
me,  over  and  over  again,  in  the  dead  waste  and 
middle  of  the  night,  forbidding  sleep  from  my 
eyes,  and  conjuring  before  me  such  visions  of 
possible  joy  that  I  scarcely  dared  to  let  my 
thoughts  dwell  on  them.     I  remember  how  I 
used  to  lie  in  bed  in  the  darkness,  with  closed 
eyes  and  folded  hands,  centering  all  my  being  in 
the  one  supreme  act  of  prayer  ;  and  how  I  some- 
times broke  down  under  an  overwhelming  sense 
of  my  own  weakness,  and  wept  till  I  fell  asleep. 
And  now  it  was  certainty  —  a  wonderful,    en- 
rapturing, bewildering  certainty ;  and  the  world 
was  suddenly  transfigured  ;  and  I  walked  upon 
roses ;  and  the  air  I  breathed  was  liquid  sunghine ! 
It  was  my  secret.     I  was  a  miser,  and  kept 
it  to  myself.     I  loved  to  be  alone,  that  I  might 
exult  in  it,  and  dwell  upon  it,  and  repeat  it  a 
hundred  times,  and  again  a  hundred  times,  and 
find  fresh  music  in  the  words  at  every  utterance  ! 
I  could  not  work  when  the  knowledge  first  be- 
came mine.     I  went  daily  to  the  Sciarra  Palace ; 
took  my  usual  seat ;  mixed  the  colors  on  the 
pallet ;  and  then  sat  idle,  lost  in  delicious  dreams. 
As  the  day  advanced,  I  generally  gave  up  the 
useless  effort,  and  wandered  out  to  some  quiet 
place  where  I  could  sit  in  the  shade  of  trees 
and  dream   again.     Thus  for  several  days  in 
succession,   I  haunted  the   secluded   alleys   of 
the    Quirinal  Gardens,  and   the    ruins   of  the 
Baths   of    Caracalla ;   sometimes  roaming  rest- 
lessly to  and  fro,  but  oftenest  sitting  still,  in  a 
kind    of  passive    ecstasy,  wondering  how  the 
world  had  suddenly  become  so  beautiful.    Noth- 
ing now  seemed  as  it  was  before.     A  little  while 
ago,   and   day  followed  day  mechanically;   and 
the  sun  shone,  or  the  rain  fell,  and  I  heeded 
not ;  and  the  flowers  blossomed  by  the  wayside, 
and  I  passed  them  unobservant.     Now  I  saw 
every  thing,  as  if  for  the  first  time ;  and  drank 
in  delight  from  each  sight  and  sound  of  spring. 
And  all  this  arose  out  of  my  secret ;  and  that 
secret — ah  !  that  priceless  secret  lay  close,  close 
to  my  heart,  doubling  each  fond  pulsation  in  a 
tender,  mysterious  harmony ;  blending  life  with 
life,  and  love  with  love,  and  irradiating  all  the 
future  with   a  light   direct  from  heaven.     My 
child  —  dear  God !  how  the  words  thrilled  my 
very  brain,  when  I  whispered  them  softly  to  my 
self !     Was  there  ever  such  melody  in  words  be- 
fore ?     Was  there  ever  such  consolation  ?    Was 
there  ever  such  wealth  ?     Only  those  who  had 
lived  with  nothing  to  live  for,  only  those  who 
have  worked  with  nothing  to  work  for,  can  tell 
what  my  secret  was  to  me. 

It  informed  every  thought,  and  influenced 
every  act  of  my  daily  life.  It  revived  the  am- 
bition of  art  which  had  so  long  been  dead  within 
me.  It  awakened  the  sense  of  beauty  which  had 
so  long  lain  dormant.  It  created  a  new  interest 
in  every  earth-born  thing,  inanimate  or  animate, 
and  linked  it  with  a  thousand  happy  projects.  I 
could  not  see  the  wild  flowers  in  the  grass  with- 
out thinking  how  sweet  it  would  be,  by  and  by, 
to  gather  them  for  tiny  hands  to  play  with.  I 
could  not  hear  the  lark's  song  over  head,  with- 
out some  fancy  of  how  I  might  train  that  baby 
ear  to  love  sweet  sounds,  and  all  God's  happy 


creatures.  I  even  overleaped  the  chasm  of 
years,  and,  sitting  among  the  ponderous  arches 
of  the  ancient  baths,  planned  how  I  would  study 
the  history  and  language  of  this  vanished  people, 
and  teach  them  to  my  child  amid  the  scenes  of 
their  greatness. 

Thus,  building  my  fairy  castles  in  the  air,  the 
sunny  hours  went  by,  and  evening  came,  and  I 
went  home  through  the  dusky  streets  with  heaven 
in  my  heart.  Sometimes  I  turned  aside  for  a 
few  moments,  to  enter  the  open  door  of  some 
church  and  listen  to  the  chanting.  I  remember 
that  even  the  tawdry  images  of  the  Virgin  and 
Child  at  the  comers  of  the  public  thoroughfares 
touched  me  now  with  something  of  a  poetical 
significance  which  they  had  never  possessed, 
before. 

I  always  went  home,  at  this  time,  with  reluc- 
tance. I  was  in  love  with  solitude,  and,  egotist 
that  I  was  !  grew  impatient  of  dear  old  Goody's 
harmless  prattle.  Ah,  how  unwilling  I  was  to 
share  my  secret  with  her !  How  I  put  it  off 
from  day  to  day,  and  dreaded  lest  she  should  dis- 
cover it  for  herself! 

Henceforth  I  was  to  be  no  more  alone.  Hence- 
forth, the  highest  and  holiest  of  all  earthly  love, 
and  the  tenderest  of  all  earthly  companionship, 
was  to  be  mine.  This  thought  was  my  crowning 
happiness — not  a  wholly  unalloyed  and  unshad- 
owed happiness,  even  then ;  for  how  could  I,  even 
in  the  first  flush  of  my  new  joy,  forget  that  my 
child  must  enter  life  legally  dishonored,  and  never 
know  the  father  from  whom  its  being  came  ? 
Alas  !  the  father — the  father  whom  I  still  loved 
so  dearly — whose  portrait  I  should  look  for, 
presently,  in  a  baby  face — whose  tone  I  should 
by  and  by  listen  for  in  a  baby  voice — whom  I 
must  try  to  love  henceforward  as  a  mere  memory, 
dead,  and  forgiven,  and  passed  away. 

And  this  was  my  secret  that  came  with  the 
summer. 


CHAPTER  LVm. 

AN    OLD     FRIEND. 

"  I  HAVE  had  playmates,  I  have  had  companions 
In  my  days  of  childhood,  in  my  joyful  school-days." 

C.  Lamb. 

The  summer  went  by  in  work,  and  hope,  and 
tender  expectation.  My  task  finished  at  the 
Sciarra  Palace,  I  found  myself  "  passing  rich," 
with  a  capital  of  two  hundred  scudi,  and  a  fresh 
commission.  This  time  it  was  a  cabinet  paint- 
ing by  Giulio  Romano,  and  the  original  was  in- 
trusted to  my  care,  to  copy  at  home,  I  now 
made  myself  a  little  studio  by  partitioning  oflf 
half  my  sitting-room,  with  a  large  folding  screen, 
and  used  to  paint  there  all  day  long  close 
against  the  partly  darkened  window,  with  the 
warm  orange-scented  air  creeping  in  from  the 
gardens  beyond.  Here  Goody  would  sit  by  with 
her  needle-work,  or  chat  to  me  from  the  other 
side  of  the  screen  while  she  prepared  our  modest 
dinner;  and  on  the  outer  loggia  we  loitered 
many  an  hour  after  dusk,  watching  the  fire-flies 
circling  to  and  fro,  and  whispering  to  each  other 
of  the  guests  to  come.  As  the  later  heats  drew 
on,  a  silence  fell  upon  the  Roman  streets,  and 
all  who  could  afford  to  leave  the  city  emigrated 
to  the  seaside  or  the  mountains.  But  I  had  no 
desire  to  follow  the  general  example,  and  no 


164 


BARBARAS  HISTORY. 


means;  unless  by  borrowing  from  the  Profes- 
sor's fund,  to  which  nothing  short  of  necessity 
should  have  compelled  me.  I  loved  Rome  best 
in  its  season  of  solitude ;  and,  less  fearful  of 
recognition  than  at  other  times,  ventured  oc- 
casionally into  the  public  gardens  and  galleries, 
and  sometimes  indulged  myself  with  an  after- 
noon among  the  delicious  glades  of  the  Bor- 
ghese  grounds. 

Thus  July  and  August  passed,  and  Septem- 
ber came  with  rumors  of  the  vintage  on  the 
hills — September^  so  full  of  hope,  and  promise ; 
so  rich  in  giving';  so  long  in  ^ming  ;  so  wel- 
come at  last ! 

The  Professor  wrote  seldom,  and  very  briefly. 
Early  in  September,  while  the  hope  of  which  he 
knew  nothing  was  yet  unfulfilled,  I  received  a 
letter  from  him  which  informed  me  that  my  old 
friend  and  school-companion,  Ida  Saxe,  was  on 
her  way  to  Rome.  Promoted  to  the  sub-pro- 
fessorship which  I  had  left  vacant,  and  having 
been  twice  successful  in  competition  for  the 
medal,  she  had  now  received  a  small  grant  from 
the  Academic  fund,  to  enable  her  to  prosecute 
her  studies  in  Italy.  *'  She  has  already  spent 
some  weeks  in  Florence,"  wrote  Professor  Metz; 
"  and  by  the  time  you  receive  my  letter,  will 
probably  have  arrived  in  Rome.  You  can  learn 
her  address,  if  you  choose,  at  the  Hotel  Minerva. 
I  do  not  ask  you  to  seek  her.  I  have  kept  your 
secret  faithfully,  and  it  is  for  yourself  to  judge 
whether  you  Will  in  this  case  depart  from  your 
prescribed  line  of  conduct.  If  I  might  advise 
you,  I  should  say,  '  Go  to  her.'  A  student  in 
Rome,  like  yourself,  traversing  the  same  streets, 
frequenting  the  same  galleries,  and  devoted  to 
the  same  pursuits,  it  is  impossible  that  she 
should  not,  some  day,  encounter  you.  It  is 
not  likely  that  she  will  stay  less  than  three 
years ;  and  it  is  most  unlikely  that  for  three 
years  you  can  succeed  in  avoiding  her.  If,  how- 
ever, you  prefer  removing  to  Florence,  by  all 
means  do  so.  I  can  give  you  an  introduction 
to  a  dealer  on  the  Lung'  Arno,  and  may  venture, 
I  think,  to  promise  that  you  will  do  as  well 
there  as  in  Rome.  I  shall  be  glad  to  know  your 
decision  by  an  early  post.  Ever  yours,  etc., 
etc." 

My  decision  was  speedily  made.  I  put  my 
work  aside  ;  and,  having  first  looked  at  a  large 
airy  upper  room  for  which  my  landlady  re- 
quired a  tenant,  went  at  once  to  the  Albergo 
de  la  Minerva,  and  inquired  if  the  signora  Saxe 
had  arrived. 

"  Si,  signora,  by  the  Siena  diligence,  about 
an  hour  ago,"  replied  the  waiter ;  and  showed 
me  up  four  flights  of  stairs,  to  a  little  gloomy 
room  against  the  roof,  where  I  found  her 
sitting  in  the  midst  of  her  boxes,  pale,  weary  and 
disconsolate. 

"  Ida,"  I  said,  lifting  my  vail.  "  Do  you  re- 
member me  ?" 

She  rose,  looked  at  me,  hesitated,  changed 
color,  and  then,  with  a  cry  of  surprise,  and  joy, 
sprang  into  my  arms. 

"  Barbara !"  she  exclaimed.  "  Meine  geliebte 
Barbara  !     Is  it  really,  really  thyself?" 

And  with  this  she  wept  and  laughed,  and 
kissed  me  over  and  over  again,  and  could 
scarcely  believe  that  it  was  not  all  a  dream. 

"Ah,  what  years  have  gone  by!"  she  said, 
presently,  as  we  sat  hand  in  hand.  "  What 
long,  long  years  !     I  never  thought  to  see  you 


again,  Barbara.  "We  heard  that  you  had  married; 
but  we  knew  not  even  your  name.  Why  did 
you  never  write  ?  Why  did  you  never  come  to 
see  us  again  ?  Alas  !  you  forgot  us  —  you  for- 
got your  poor  Ida,  who  loved  you  so  dearly,  and 
whose  easel  stood  beside  your  own  for  so  many 
years !  Are  you  living  in  Rome  ?  Is  your 
husband  a  painter  ?  How  did  you  know  I  was 
here  ?  Who  told  you  ?  How  good  of  you  to 
come  so  soon  !  I  have  not  been  here  an  hour, 
and  I  was  so  lonely  !" 

To  which  I  replied — 

"  Meine  liebe  Ida,  you  ask  more  questions  in 
a  breath  than  I  can  answer  in  a  day.  Tell  me 
first  what  your  plans  are  ?" 

"Plans?"  said  she.  "I  have  none,  except 
to  study  hard." 

"  But  where  do  you  propose  to  live  ?" 

"  I  have  no  idea." 

"  Have  you  no  friends  in  Rome  ?" 

"  I  thought  not,  an  hour  ago." 

"Would  you  like  to  live  with  me?  Mjpct- 
drona  has  a  room  to  let,  and " 

"  What  happiness !  I  would  rather  live  with 
you  than  with  anyone  in  the  world." 

"  Then  I  can  assure  you,  my  darling,  that  you 
are  the  only  person  in  the  world  whom  I  would 
take  to  live  with  me.  Your  boxes,  I  see,  are  not 
even  uncorded ;  so,  if  you  please,  we  will  send 
for  a  vettura,  and  go  at  once." 

"But  your  husband — are  you  sure  that  he 
will  be  pleased  to — to  have  a  stranger " 

"My  husband,  dear,  is  not  in  Rome,  and  I 
have  but  my  own  pleasure  to  consult  in  taking 
you  to  my  home.  Are  you  too  tired  to  go  with 
me  now?" 

"  Tired  ?  The  sight  of  your  face  has  ban- 
ished all  my  fatigue.    How  far  have  we  to  go  ?" 

"  About  half  a  mile.  If  you  prefer  to  walk, 
we  can  send  the  luggage  by  a/accAmo." 

"  I  would  much  rather  walk,  if — if  you " 

"  It  will  not  fatigue  me,"  I  rephed,  hastily. 
"  I  walk  out  every  day  at  this  time,  whien  the 
dusk  is  coming  on,  and  the  heat  of  the  after- 
noon is  past.  It  will  do  me  good  to  stroll 
quietly  homeward  through  this  sweet  evening 
air." 

So  we  groped  our  way  down  the  four  dark 
flights  of  stairs,  and,  having  left  the  necessary 
directions,  emerged  into  the  piazza  at  the  back 
of  the  Pantheon. 

"  And  this  is  Rome  !"  said  Ida,  as  we  went 
along.  "  And  this  the  Pantheon,  where  Raf- 
faelle  lies  buried !  And  this  Barbara,  .whom  I 
thought  I  had  lost  forever !  I  feel  as  if  I  must 
wake  presently,  and  find  myself  in  my  own  lit- 
tle dormitory  at  Zollenstrasse-am-Main.  Tell 
me,  Barbara,  am  I  really  awake  ?" 

"Indeed,  I  believe  so,". I  replied,  smiling. 
"  But  I  can  not  prove  it." 

"  It  is  not  in  the  least  like  the  Rome  of  my 
dreams,"  continued  she.  "  I  was  not  prepared 
for  shops,  and  cabs,  and  modern  streets  like 
these.  I  had  pictured  a  sort  of  Palmyra  —  a 
wilderness  of  majestic  ruins  in  the  midst  of  the 
Campagna,  with  a  kind  of  modern  suburb,  out 
of  sight,  where  people  lived,  and  slept,  and  ate, 
and  drank,  like  other  common  mortals.  Mercy ! 
what  strange  creature  is  that,  with  the  ruff 
and  the  striped  stockings?  He  looks  as  if  he 
had  stepped  out  of  a  medieval  German  pic- 
ture." 

"  It  is  one  of  the  Pope's  Swiss  Guard,"  I  re- 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


165 


plied,  amused  by  her  naive  volubility.  "And 
now  we  are  in  the  Corso — the  heart  of  modern 
Rome." 

"  How  cheerful  it  is  here  !"  said  she ;  "  how 
much  fuller  of  life  than  Florence  !  I  have  just 
come  from  Florence — I  was  there  five  weeks,  in 
a  gloomy  boarding-house,  in  a  still  more  gloomy 
street.  I  was  so  miserable  !  I  don't  know  what 
I  should  have  done,  if  it  had  not  been  for  a 
dear,  kind,  disagreeable  old  English  lady,  who 
liked  me,  and  took  me  out  sometimes  for  a 
drive  in  the  lovely  country  outside  the  walls. 
She  was  such  a  dear  old  lady.  She  contradicted 
every  body,  and  she  hated  every  thing  foreign, 
and  she  made  me  laugh  so  !  They  all  detested 
her  in  the  boarding-house — except  myself  At 
last  she  went  away  to  join  her  niece  in  Pisa; 
and  then  the  place  became  so  intolerable  that 
I  would  stay  no  longer." 

"  But  the  galleries  and  the  churches--«urely 
those  delighted  you  ?" 

"  Delighted  me  ?  They  bewildered  me.  I  wan- 
dered through  them,  like  Aladdin  in  the  garden 
of  jewels.  If  I  were  to  tell  you  how  I  felt  when 
I  first  saw  Michael  Angelo's  David  standing  out 
in  the  open  air  against  the  Ducal  palace,  or  how 
I  almost  wept  for  joy  when  I  found  myself  in 
presence  of  the  Venus  and  the  Fornarina,  you 
would  laugh  at  me !  Was  there  ever  such  a 
painter's  Paradise  as  the  Uffizii  ?  Do  you  re- 
member the  first  long  corridor,  full  of  religious 
subjects  of  the  early  Tuscan  school  ?  Do  you 
remember  all  those  sad-looking  Madonnas,  each 
with  her  head  a  little  on  one  side ;  and  those 
stiff  golden-haired  angels,  that  hold  up  their 
hands  in  quaint  adoration,  never  bending  a 
finger  ?  Do  you  remember  how  wonderfully 
the  velvets  and  embroideries  were  painted  ? 
Do  you  remember  the  queer  old  medieval 
saints  in  court  dresses,  looking  so  like  Louis 
the  Eleventh ;  the  St.  Johns  and  St.  Stephens 
in  red  velvet  shoes,  and  jeweled  baldrics,  and 
elaborate  doublets,  each  with  a  golden  plate  of 
glory  miraculously  suspended  an  inch  above  his 
head?" 

"  Indeed  I  do ;  and  the  amazing  landscapes 
in  the  background,  where  uncomfortable  red 
castles  are  perched  on  inaccessible  peaks  of 
bright  blue  rock,  and  the  world  seems  made  of 
nothing  but  coral  and  carbonate  of  copper  !" 

"And  then  the  Niobe,  and  the  Madonna  della 
Seggiola,  and  the  frescoes  of  Giotto — is  it  not 
something  to  have  lived  for,  when  one  has  seen 
all  these  ?  But  there !  one  can  not  take  up 
one's  abode  in  churches  and  galleries ;  and  Flor- 
ence is  a  dreary  place  after  three  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon  !  Every  house  looks  like  a  prison  ; 
and  a  pension  full  of  uncongenial  strangers  is 
worse  than  no  society  at  all.  I  often  wished 
myself  back  at  the  College,  in  spite  of  the  Raf- 
faelles  and  Giotfos.  But  you  have  not  yet  told 
me  how  you  heard  of  my  arrival  in  Rome  ?" 

"By  a  letter  which  I  received  to-day  from 
Professor  Metz." 

"  Professor  Metz  !  Then  he  knew  where  you 
were,  and — why,  to  be  sure,  he  was  in  Rome  a 
few  months  ago !  So,  I  suppose  he  met  you 
and  —  how  stupid  of  me  not  to  have  guessed 
that  at  fir^!  How  strange  of  him,  never  to 
tell  us  one%ord  about  you !  And  by  the  by, 
liebe,  I  do  not  yet  know  your  married  name.  I 
know  you  only  as  my  fellow-student,  Barbara 
Churchill." 


"  Then  you  must  know  me  now,  dear  Ida,  as 
Barbara  Carlyon,"  I  replied. 

"  Barbara  Carlyon  !  What  a  pretty  name ! 
Ah,  dear,  I  always  thought  you  would  marry 
the  Herr  Farquhar,  and  be  a  grand  lady,  ever 
so  much  richer  and  finer  than  our  Grand 
Duchess.  I  am  almost  disappointed  that  you 
are  Mrs.  Carlyon,  instead.  And  now  tell  me 
something  about  your  husband ;  but  you  look 
vexed  !     What  have  I  said?" 

"Nothing,  dear— nothing,  at  least,  that  you 
could  help,  or  I  avoid.  So— you  like  the  name 
of  Carlyon  ?  It  is  one  that  has  brought  me 
much  grief.  We  will  not  talk  of  my — my  hus- 
band or  myself,  dear,  just  at  present.  The  sub- 
ject is  a  painful  one,  and  —  and — this  is  the 
Piazza  di  Spagna,  and  the  church  at  the  top  of 
that  noble  flight  of  steps  is  the  Trinity  de' 
Monti.  This  is  quite  the  English  quarter  of 
Rome.  Up  yonder  lies  the  French  Academy. 
We  have  but  a  few  yards  farther  to  go  now." 

Ida  pressed  my  arm  affectionately,  and  made 
no  reply.  Her  joyous  flow  of  talk  was  all 
checked,  and  I  could  see  that  her  kind  heart 
was  troubled.  As  we  approached  the  corner 
of  the  Via  della  Croce,  we  came  upon  a  little 
crowd  gathered  round  a  street-singer,  who  was 
chanting  some  simple  ballad  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  a  cracked  guitar.  The  man's  voice  was 
deep  and  musical,  and  he  wore  a  scarlet  cap, 
and  a  long  black  beard,  frosted  here  and  there 
with  silver. 

"  What  a  picturesque  feUow !"  exclaimed  Ida. 
"  How  I  should  like  to  make  a  study  of  his 
head !" 

"  Then  do  so,  by  all  means,"  I  replied.  "  He 
would  sit  to  you,  no  doubt,  for  a  few  pauls." 

But  she  was  shy,  and  would  not  speak  before 
the  bystanders ;  so,  after  lingering  a  moment,  we 
passed  on. 

"  It  is  strange,"  I  said,  more  to  myself  than 
her ;  "  but  I  seem  to  have  seen  that  face  before 
— somewhere — long  ago — and  yet  there  is  some- 
thing changed  about  it.  Where  could  it  have 
been?    And  where?" 

"  Perhaps  in  a  picture,"  suggested  Ida. 

"Very  likely.  I  dare  say  he  has  sat  as  a 
model  many  a  time ;  and  yet — well,  Ida,  this  is 
the  Vicolo  d'Aliberti,  and  this  little  house  with 
the  green  shutters  is — ^home." 

Thus  I  took  my  old  school-friend  to  dwell  with 
me  in  my  humble  lodging  in  the  Vicolo  d'Ali- 
berti, and  made  her  welcome  ;  and  by  and  by  we 
had  coffee  together  upon  the  loggia,  and  talked  of 
old  times  till  the  moon  rose  over  the  brow  of 
the  Pincio.  But  that  very  night  the  angels  of 
lifeand  death  stood  on  my  threshold  ;  and  for 
hours  it  seemed  doubtful  whether  the  Almighty 
One  would  send  a  soul  to  earth,  or  gather  two 
to  heaven.  But  as  suffering  came  with  dark- 
ness, so  came  joy  with  the  rising  of  the  sun  ;  and 
as  the  morning  light  poured  in  at  the  window, 
a  little  tender  blossom  of  life  was  laid  in  my 
arms. 


166 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


CHAPTER  LIX. 

THE    MODEL. 

••  As  mine  own  shadow  was  this  child  to  me 
A  second  self,  far  dearer  and  more  fair, 
Which  clothed  in  undissolving  radiancy- 
All  those  steep  paths  which  languor  and  despair 
Of  human  things,  had  made  so  dark  and  bare. " 
Shelley. 

My  little  living  flower,  so  fair,  so  placid,  so 
fragile ;  to  whom  my  love  was  providence,  my 
life  nourishment,  my  arms  the  world !  I  adored 
him ;  and  he  was  mine — utterly  mine.  I  was 
never  weary  of  repeating  this  to  myself,  and 
whispering  it  upon  his  lips  between  the  kisses — 
those  rose-leaf  lips  of  which  I  was  so  jealous, 
that,  when  another  mouth  had  touched  them,  I 
hastened  to  kiss  the  stranger-kiss  away,  and 
make  them  once  more  all  my  own, 

I  was  almost  ashamed,  at  first,  to  let  them  see 
how  I  worshiped  my  idol.  If  he  smiled  in  any 
face  but  mine,  I  was  ready  to  weep  with  vexa- 
tion. I  never  yielded  him  from  my  embrace 
without  a  secret  pang.  Only  to  lie  and  watch  him 
as  he  slept  on  the  pillow  by  my  side  was  perfect 
content ;  but  to  lean  above  him  when  he  waked 
— to  meet  the  wanderings  of  his  tiny  hands — to 
gaze  down  into  the  clear  unconscious  depths  of 
his  blue  eyes,  was  ecstasy  and  joy  unspeakable. 
Day  by  day  I  beheld  the  sweet  mystery  of  his 
growth,  and  entered  some  fresh  record  upon  the 
tablets  of  my  memory.  Day  by  day  I  watched 
the  everlasting  miracle  of  life  unfolding  itself 
for  my  adoration  and  delight,  till  my  heart  ached 
with  the  fullness  of  its  love,  and  every  thought 
became  a  poem,  and  every  act  a  prayer.  Thus 
the  first  weeks  w«it  by,  and  each  week  my 
"  wonder-flower  "  bloomed  into  new  loveliness 
and  strength.  His  beauty  at  first  was  but  that 
angelic  baby-beauty  of  perfect  fairness  and  puri- 
ty that  almost  seems  to  give  confirmation  to  the 
poet's  theory  of  how  "Heaven  lies  about  us  in 
our  infancy  ;"  but  before  the  first  month  of  his 
little  life  was  all  lived  out,  there  came  a  change 
which  spoke  to  no  heart,  and  was  visible  to  no 
eyes  but  mine — a  dawning  of  the  father  in  his 
infant  face,  which  made  him,  if  that  could  be, 
more  beloved  than  ever ;  and  yet  thrilled  all  my 
pleasure  with  a  sense  of  bitter  pain.  It  was  not 
always  there.  When  I  looked  for  it,  I  could 
seldom  see  it.  It  came  and  went  in  flashes  ;  an 
indefinable,  inexphcable  something  no  sooner 
seen  than  vanished. 

In  the  mean  time  Ida  had  become  established 
as  part  of  our  little  household.  She  tenanted 
the  large  room  up-stairs ;  Goody  acted  as  cook 
and  general  purveyor  ;  and  we  all  three  took  our 
meals  together  without  distinction  of  precedence, 
like  King  Arthur  and  his  knights  of  the  Round 
Table.  For  the  first  few  weeks,  Ida  staid  al- 
most constantly  at  home,  surrounding  me  with 
loving  cares,  and  indiflferent  to  all  the  wonders 
of  Rome.  I  with  difficulty  prevailed  upon  her 
once  or  twice  to  go  as  far  as  St.  Peter's,  or  the 
Colosseum,  or  the  little  church  of  the  Cappucini, 
where  Guide's  masterpiece  lights  all  the  sor- 
did chancel,  like  a  window  opening  to  the  sun  ; 
but  I  could  not  prevail  upon  her  to  visit  the 
Vatican  without  me.  She  had  promised  herself, 
she  said,  not  to  see  the  Transfiguration,  or  the 
School  of  Athens,  or  the  Communion  of  St. 
Jerome,  or  the  Last  Judgment,  till  we  looked 


upon  them  together ;  and  though  it  were  three 
months  hence,  she  was  determined  to  wait  for 
me.  From  this  resolution  I  could  not  move  her. 
Meanwhile,  she  occupied  my  little  studio,  and 
painted  from  whatever  model  she  could  find. 
Of  these  there  were  always  plenty  haunting 
about  the  corners  of  the  Piazza  di  Spagna,  and 
the  steps  of  the  Trinity  de'  Monti — fierce  bri- 
gands purchasable  attwopaulsthehour ;  Traste- 
verini  Madonnas  with  little  brown  babies ;  ma- 
jestic patriarchs  whose  venerable  heads  were  the 
common  property  of  all  the  artists  in  Rome ; 
and  Pififerari  who  were  willing,  for  a  considera- 
tion, to  "  pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone," 
at  the  pleasure  of  the  hirer.  Better  than  all 
these,  however,  she  one  day  chanced  again  upon 
the  bearded  guitar-singer  of  the  Via  della  Croce, 
and  brought  him  home  in  triumph.  After  a  sit- 
ting of  two  hours,  she  dismissed  him  with  an  ap- 
pointment for  the  following  morning,  and  came 
to  me  with  her  sketch  in  her  hand,  and  her  head 
full  of  projects. 

"  See,  Barbara,"  said  she;  "it  is  but  roughly 
laid  in,  yet  what  an  effect  already  !  He.  has  a 
charming  head — so  refined,  so  melancholy  !  I 
have  the  greatest  mind  in  the  world  to  under- 
take a  large  picture  at  once,  and  make  him  my 
principal  figure.  It  would  do  to  send  over  to 
Zollenstrasse  for  the  competition  next  spring ; 
and  if  I  do  not  secure  this  model  while  I  can 
get  him,  I  shall  lose  him  altogether ;  for  he  is 
going  a\fay,  he  tells  me,  before  long.  What 
think  you  of  Galileo  before  the  council  of  In- 
quisitors; or  Columbus  laying  his  project  before 
Ferdinand  and  Isabella  ?  Both  are  good  sub- 
jects ;  and  I  have  studies  for  both  in  my  port- 
folio. One  is  expected,  you  see,  to  do  some- 
thing ambitious  in  Rome;  and  —  and  if  you 
do  not  think  I  should  be  venturing  out  of  my 

depth " 

"  Who  dares  nothing,  achieves  nothing,"  I  re- 
plied, smiling.     "  Let  me  see  your  studies." 

She  ran  and  fetched  them,  radiant  with  excite- 
ment. Both  were  unusually  clever ;  but  of  the 
two,  I  preferred  the  Columbus. 

"  And  you  really  think  I  may  venture  to  un- 
dertake it  ?"  said  Ida,  breathlessly. 
"  I  do,  truly." 
"And  my  model?" 

"I  do  not  see  how  you  could  have  found  a 
better.  It  is  the  face  of  one  who  has  thought 
and  suffered ;  the  very  type  of  the  contempla- 
tive, intellectual,  heroic  navigator.  Strange  ! 
the  more  I  look  at  it,  the  more  familiar  it 
seems.  I  am  certain  I  have  seen  that  man  some- 
where— a  long  time  ago." 

"I  will  run  at  once  to  Dovizielli's,  and  order 
the  canvas,"  said  Ida,  and  was  gone  in  a  moment. 
The  model  came  again  next  morning  at  ten 
o'clock,  and  found  Ida  waiting  for  him  with  a 
canvas  measuring  six  feet  by  three.  I  was  sit- 
ting out  upon  the  loggia  in  a  great  lounge  chair, 
enjoying  the  balmy  October  air  and  the  shade  of 
the  flickering  vine-leaves  that  roofed  in  the  trel- 
lis over  head.  An  open  book  lay  unread  in  my 
lap ;  my  baby  slept  in  his  cradle  at  my  feet ;  and 
Goody  sat  opposite,  cutting  beans  for  dinner. 

"  Buon  giorno,  signore,'^  said  the  model, 
taking  off  his  cap,  and  bowing  to  each  of  us  in 
succession. 

"  Buon  giorno,^'  replied  Ida.  "  I  am  going  to 
put  you  in  a  large  picture,  amico ;  and  I  hope 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


167 


you  will  stay  in  Rome  long  enough  to  let  me 
complete  it."  ► 

"  I  hope  so,  signora." 

"  How  soon  shall  you  be  leaving?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  signora." 

"  In  six  weeks,  do  you  think  ?" 

"  I  can  not  tell,  signora.  It  does  not  depend 
on  myself." 

"On  what  does  it  depend,  then?"  asked  Ida, 
somewhat  impatiently. 

The  model  looked  grave. 

"  On  God's  will,  signora,"  replied  he,  and 
came  to  the  open  window,  outside  which  I  was 
sitting. 

"  Che  hello  J'anciullo .'"  he  said,  bending  to- 
ward the  cradle:  "  e  la  sua,  signora P'' 

"  Yes,"  I  answered,  with  a  flush  of  pride  and 
pleasure.     "He  is  my  baby." 

"  He  is  like  a  snow-drop,"  said  the  model,  in 
his  musical  Italian;  and  sighed,  and  turned 
away. 

In  that  instant  I  recognized  him.  It  was  the 
ballad-singer  of  the  forest  of  Vincennes.  He 
looked  older,  and  sadder,  and  wore  a  beard 
reaching  midway  to  his  waist ;  but  I  knew  him, 
for  all  that.  The  recognition  came  upon  me 
like  a  shock,  bringing  with  it  a  throng  of  as- 
sociations. I  closed  my  eyes,  and  the  green 
woods  were  once  more  waving  around  me,  and 
Hugh's  warm  kiss  was  glowing  on  my  lips. 
Then  I  remembered  how  I  had  seen  the  same 
man  a  few  weeks  later  in  the  Champs  Elysees, 
the  very  evening  before  my  wedding-day.  My 
husband  never  explained  his  wild  conduct  of 
that  evening ;  and  till  this  moment  I  had  for- 
gotten it  as  though  it  had  never  been.  Ah, 
dolce  tempo  passato  !  How  much  joy  and  how 
much  sorrow  had  been  mine,  since  then !  The 
burning  tears  welled  up,  and  dropped  down,  one 
by  one.  No  one  saw  them.  Ida  had  placed  the 
model  and  begun  her  charcoal  outline ;  and 
Goody  was  busy  with  her  household  task.  Pres- 
ently my  boy  woke,  smiling,  and  turned  his 
blue  eyes  to  the  light.  I  snatched  him  to  my 
bosom,  and  covered  him  with  kisses.  My  poor 
boy,  who  would  never  know  any  parent's  love 
but  mine — who  had  not  even  the  right  to  bear 
his  father's  ancient  name  ! 

Her  beans  finished,  Goody  rose  and  went  in, 
leaving  me  alone  on  the  loggia.  I  plucked  a 
bunch  of  vine  leaves,  and,  turning  somewhat 
aside  that  I  might  not  be  disturbed  by  the  sight 
of  the  model,  played  with  my  baby  till  the  tears 
on  my  cheeks*"  took  sunshine  from  his  eyes." 
A  burst  of  military  music  presently  filled  the  air, 
and  I  saw  a  file  of  bayonets  scintillating  above 
the  level  of  the  road  wall  leading  up  to  the 
Pincio.  The  tiny  creature  in  my  lap  laughed 
and  moved  its  little  arms.  I  fancied  he  was 
listening  to  the  joyous  clang,  and  my  heart 
throbbed  tumultuously,  believing  that  in  these 
indications  I  beheld  the  first  awakenings  of  the 
intelligent  soul. 

Suddenly,  in  the  very  flush  of  my  rapture,  I 
heard  a  name  that  seemed  to  stop  my  pulses  and 
my  breathing,  and  freeze  the  smile  upon  my 
lips. 

"Capri." 

Sitting  there  like  one  stunned,  I  lost  what 
immediately  followed.  The  next  words  which 
bore  meaning  to  my  ear  were  spoken  by  Ida. 

"  You  are  quite  sure  of  what  you  tell  me, 
amico  .^" 


"  Certo,  certo,  signora.'''' 
"'  How  is  it  that  you  know  so  much  about  the 
rigging  of  a  vessel  ?" 

"  Signora,  I  have  been  a  sailor." 
"But  this  is  a  Spanish  galleon  of  more  than 
three  hundred  years  ago." 

"  Fa  niente,  signora.  No  vessel  lying  in  port 
would  be  rigged  like  that  vessel  in  your  picture. 
It  is  impossible.  Where  did  the  signora  see 
the  ship  which  she  has  taken  for  a  model  ?" 
"  In  an  old  Spanish  engraving." 
"  And  was  the  ship  at  anchor  alongside  the 
quays?" 

"No;   the  engraving  represented  a  fleet  of 
galleons  at  sea." 

'■'■Eccola!    If  the  vessel  were  under  way,  the 

signora  would  be  absolutely  right ;  but  she  may 

rely  upon  it  that  all  these  ropes  would  be  slack, 

and  these  sails  furled,  in  harbor,     I  beg  the 

signora's  pardon  for  my  boldness  in  naming  it." 

"  Pray  do  no  such  thing,"  said  Ida,     "  I  am 

sincerely  obliged  to  you  for  your  information." 

And  then  they  were  both  sUent. 

He  was  Italian — he  had  been  a  sailor — ^he  had 

spoken  the  name  of  Capri !     He  might,  perhaps, 

know  something  of  the  history  of  Maddalen#— 

he  might  be  able  to  tell  me  something — to  make 

many  things  clearer  to  me "Who  could  tell  ? 

It  was  not  impossible.  It  was  worth  a  trial. 
What  should  I  do  ?  To  question  him  would  be 
to  tell  Ida  all  that  my  pride  had  hitherto  kept 
sealed  in  my  own  heart.  Yet  not  to  question 
him  would  be  to  abandon  a  chance  that  might 
never  again  present  itself.  While  I  was  yet 
confused  and  hesitating,  Ida  spoke  again. 

"  How  long  is  it,  amico ^''  said  she,  "  since  ycu 
have  given  up  the  sea  ?" 

"About  three  years,  signora." 
You  find  it  more  profitable,  I  suppose,  to  sit 
to  artists  as  a  model." 

"  To  be  a  model,  signora,  is  not  my  calling. 
I  told  the  signora  so,  when  she  requested  me  to 
sit  to  her." 

"  True;  I  had  forgotten  it.  You  are  a  ballad- 
singer." 

"Yes,  signora." 

"And  why  have  you  given  up  the  sea  for 
street-singing.  Do  you  earn  more  money  by 
it?" 

"On  the  contrary,  signora.  Where  I  earn 
two  pauls  by  music,  I  could  earn  a  scudo  at 
sea." 

"  Then  why  abandon  the  sea  ?" 
"  Because — because  I  wished  to  see  foreign 
countries,  signora." 

"  But  a  sailor  sees  foreign  countries." 
'"'' E vero,  signora;  but  he  only  sees  the  ports. 
I  wished  to  travel  over  land," 

"  And  where  have  you  traveled,  then  ?"  ask- 
ed Ida,  evidently  interested  and  amused. 
"  To  Paris  and  London,  signora." 
"On  foot?" 

"Always  on  foot,  signora,  and  singing  for  my 
daily  bread." 

"  How  singular !  And  now,  I  suppose,  hav- 
ing seen  the  world,  you  have  come  home  to 
your  native  country  for  the  rest  of  your  life  ?" 

"  I  know  not,  signora.     The  world  is  wide, 
and  I  have  seen  very  little  of  it ;  and — and  the 
purpose  for  which  I  traveled  is  yet  unfulfilled. 
But  I  am  going  home  for  the  present." 
"  Shall  you  go  to  sea  again  ?" 
"  Yes,  signora  ;  I  think  so." 


168 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


**You  said  you  were  a  Neapolitan?" 
"  A  native  of  Capri,  signora." 
"  The  inhabitants  of  those  islands  are  mostly 
sailors,  are  they  not  ?" 

"  Sailors  and  fishermen,  signora." 
"  And  you  are  a  sailor." 
"  I  am  both,  signora.     That  is  to  say,  I  am  a 
pilot  between  Naples  and  the  Grecian  Archipe- 
lago ;   and  when  I  am  at  home  for  a  week  or 
two,  I  go  out  fishing  like  the  others." 

I  trembled — I  turned  cold — I  laid  the  child 
down  in  the  cradle,  and  bent  forward  with 
clasped  hands  and  parted  lips. 

"  Are  you  married  ?"  asked  Ida  presently,  in 
the  abstracted  tone  of  one  whose  thoughts  are 
more  than  half  engaged  elsewhere. 

"  Yes,  signora." 

*'  Did  your  wife  travel  with  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  signora." 

"  Is  she  now  in  Rome  ?" 

*'  No,  signora.  I  sent  her  back  to  Capri  some 
weeks  since,  in  a  sailing  vessel  that  was  leav- 
ing Livorno." 

"  You  have  no  family,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  "We  had  one  child,  signora,"  said  the  model, 
safty ;  '*  but  he  died  three  years  ago." 

"Poor  things!"  exclaimed  Ida,  with  ready 
sympathy,  *'  That  must  have  been  a  great  sor- 
row for  you," 

"  It  was  the  will  of  the  good  God,  signora," 
replied  the  model. 

*'  Did  he  die  in  infancy  ?" 

"  No,  signora.    He  lived  to  be  ten  years  of  age 
— such  a  fine,  brave  boy  !     It  was  very  hard  to 
art  from  him," 

"  Alas,  how  sad !" 

"We  took  him  to  the  best  physician  in 
Naples,"  continued  the  model,  "and  his  mother 
made  a  pilgrimage  to  the  shrine  of  our  Lady  of 
Loretto ;  but  it  was  of  no  avail.  The  hand  of 
God  was  upon  him.  The  signora  is  very  good 
to  interest  herself  in  our  sorrows." 

"I  can  only  give  you  my  sympathy,  amico^'' 
said  Ida.     "  I  wish  I  could  do  more." 

"  No  one  can  do  more,"  replied  the  model, 
with  a  sigh. 

"It  is,  however,  some  comfort  to  talk  now 
and  then  of  one's  troubles." 

"  I  never  talk  of  them,  signora.  I — I  some- 
times wish  I  could.  It  is  only  the  signora's 
great  kindness  and  sympathy  that  have  now  led 
me  to  speak  so  freely." 

Again  the  conversation  dropped. 

My  agitation  had  risen  to  agony.  My  thoughts 
leaped  from  fact  to  fact,  comparing  dates,  weigh- 
ing possibilities,  marshaling  evidence,  and  unit- 
ing link  to  link,  with  a  clearness  and  rapidity 
that  seemed  independent  of  my  own  volition. 
Maddalena's  eldest  brother  w6,s  a  pilot  in  Nea- 
politan and  Greek  waters  —  he  was  married 
— his  child  was  born  thirteen  years  ago,  and 
Hugh  was  present  at  the  baptism.  Could  all 
this  be  coincidence  only?  Were  they  never 
going  to  speak  again  ?  What  would  be  said 
next?  What  should  I  do,  if  they  remained 
silent !  Every  moment  of  suspense  seemed  like 
an  hour. 

At  length  Ida  resumed  the  subject. 

"  You  have  only  led  this  wandering  life,  then, 
since  you  lost  your  boy  ?"  said  she. 

"  That  is  all,  signora." 

"  Ah,  I  understand.  You  traveled  to  forget 
your  grief." 


He  made  no  reply. 

"And  shall  you  now  go  back  to  your  old 
home  ?" 

"Yes,  signora." 

"  Will  not  that  be  very  sad  for  you  ?" 
" /&\  signora;  ma  che  fare?  It  was  my 
father's  house.  His  children  were  born  there, 
and  beneath  its  roof  he  and  our  mother  died. 
It  is  sad,  but  it  is  sacred.  We  islanders  do  not 
abandon  our  homes  because  our  loved  ones  are 
gone." 

"  Who  has  taken  care  of  the  place  for  you  all 
this  time  ?" 

"No  one,  signora.  It  is  locked  up,  and  the 
priest  has  the  key.  Our  neighbors  will  not 
suffer  the  garden  to  fall  to  ruin ;  and  there  are 
no  robbers  in  the  island.  We  shall  find  every 
thing  as  we  left  it." 

"  But  you  spoke  just  now  of  your  father's 
family.  Have  you  no  brothers  or  sisters  to  wel- 
come you  back?" 

The  model  shook  his  head. 

" I  had  one  brother,  signora,"  said  he ;  "but 
he  has  been  dead  many  years.  He  was  drowned 
at  sea." 

"  Alas  ! — and  no  sisters  ?" 

"  I — I  have  neither  father  nor  mother,  brother 
nor  sister,"  replied  the  model,  gloomily.  "My 
wife  and  I  are  alone  in  the  world  together." 

I  rose  up — sat  down  again— shuddered  from 
head  to  foot.  Every  word  that  he  spoke  ad- 
ded confirmation  to  my  suspicions.  His  very 
reservations  were  testimonies.  He  was  Paolo — 
I  knew  he  was  Paolo — the  beloved  brother 
of  Maddalena,  whom  Hugh  had  never  seen; 
whom  he  twice  met,  therefore,  without  recogni- 
tion. .  The  one  drowned  at  sea  was  the  sullen 
Jacopo.  But  the  wife — the  wife  to  whom  I  had 
given  the  five-franc  piece  that  evening  in  the 
Champs  Elysees — Hugh  had  known  her,  and 
hence  his  agitation  when  the  light  fell  on  her 
face!  I  felt  that  I  must  question  him,  cost 
what  it  might ! 

The  next  silence  was  interrupted  by  the 
model. 

"  The  signora  is  not  Italian,"  said  he. 

"  No,"  replied  Ida,  "  I  am  Bavarian." 

"Bavarian?"  repeated  he.  "I  never  heard 
of  that  nation." 

"Bavaria  is  a  part  of  Germany,"  said  Ida. 
"A  Bavarian  is  a  German;  as  a  Neapolitan  is 
an  Italian." 

"  CapitOy  signora,^''  replied  he,  thoughtfully  ; 
and  then,  after  a  pause,  added,  "I — I  thought 
the  signora  might  be  English.  There  are  so 
many  English  in  Rome." 

"  Yes,  very  many,"  rejoined  Ida,  absorbed  in 
her  work.  "  The  head  a  little  more  toward  the 
left  shoulder,  if  you  please.  No — that  is  too 
much — there- -just  so." 

"  The  signora  has,  perhaps,  been  in  England  ?" 
pursued  the  model. 

"No,  never  —  do  not  move,  pray  —  why  do 
you  ask  ?" 

"  Oh  —  it  is  of  no  consequence,  signora." 

" My  friend  here  is  English,"  said  Ida,  "and 
a  Londoner." 

I  could  resist  the  impulse  no  longer. 

"Ida!"  I  said.  "Ida,  come  here  —  come  to 
me,  Zie5e." 

She  laid  down  her  brush,  and  came  directly. 

"  Ach,  lieher  Gott  I  how  pale  you  are.  What 
is  the  matter  ?" 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


169 


*'  I  want  to  speak  to  that  man,  Ida — alone." 

"To  the  model?"  stammered  she,  amazed. 

"  To  the  model,  darling.  I  —  I  think  I  know 
something  of  his  family  —  his  private  history. 
Will  you  stay  here  while  I  speak  to  him  ?" 

"  I   will  go    up-stairs  to    my  room,    if  you 


"  No  need,  liehe.  Take  care  of  baby  while  I 
am  gone." 

And  with  this  I  went  in,  closing  the  window 
after  me,  and,  taking  Ida's  seat,  said  — 

"  I  am  English,  amico.  Can  I  do  any  thing 
for  you  ?  Have  you  any  friends  in  my  country 
about  whom  I  can  help  you  to  inquire  ?" 

He  colored  up,  and  paused  a  moment  before 
replying. 

"  Grazie^  signora,"  he  said.  "  I  have  a  friend 
who— who  went  to  England— who  may  be  in 
England  now,  if  she  yet  lives.  But  I  ha»e  lost 
sight  of  her." 

"  Was  she  a  relation  ?" 

"Yes,  signora." 

"  Your  sister,  perhaps  ?" 

"Ye — yes,  signora." 

"  Then  it  was  in  search  of  her,  I  suppose, 
that  you  undertook  the  journey  of  which  I 
heard  you  speaking  just  now?" 

He  bent  his  head  somewhat  reluctantly,  as 
if  annoyed  at  having  to  confess  it. 

"  How  long  is  it  since  she  went  to  England  ?" 

"  I — I  can  not  tell,  sigftora.  I  only  know  that 
she  has  been  in  England  since  she — left  Capri  ?" 

"How  long  is  it,  then,  since  she  left  Capri?" 

"About  thirteen  years.  But  it  is  of  no  use, 
lady.  You  can  not  help  us.  She  is  gone,  and 
we  shall  never  see  her  or  hear  of  her  again." 

"  You  can  not  tell.  The  lost  sometimes  re- 
appear when  we  least  expect  to  find  traces  of 
them.  How  do  you  know  that  your  sister  has 
been  in  England?" 

"  She  wrote  to  me,  signora ;  and  the  letter 
bore  the  English  post-mark." 

"Did  she  give  you  no  address?" 

"  None." 

"  How  long  since  was  this  ?" 

"  About  five  years  ago,  signora." 

"  Why  did  she  leave  Capri,  and  with  whom  ?" 

"Pardon,  signora.  Those  questions  I  cannot 
answer." 

".JS'ay,  how  can  I  hope  to  help  you,  if  you 
will  not  freely  tell  me  all  ?" 

"  I — I  can  not,  signora." 

I  rose,  and  looked  out  from  the  loggia.  Ida 
had  withdrawn  to  the  farthest  corner  with  my 
baby  in  her  arms,  and  was  playing  with  him  as 
if  she  were  a  child  herself.  Satisfied  that  she 
he^rd  nothing,  I  resumed  my  seat. 

"  Listen,"  I  said.  "  I  once  heard  of  a  young 
girl — the  sister  of  two  sailors  whose  home  was 
in  the  island  of  Capri — as  it  might  be  your  sis- 
ter, and  your  home.  One  of  these  brothers  was 
married,  as  you  might  be ;  and  the  young  sis- 
ter, and  the  young  wife,  and  the  two  brothers, 
all  dwelt  under  the  same  roof,  and  were  one 
family.  The  elder  brother  was  a  pilot,  as  you 
say  you  were.  He  went  to  sea,  and  while  he 
was  at  sea,  his  wife  brought  a  little  infant  into 
the  world." 

The  model  lifted  his  head  sharply,  and  uttered 
a  suppressed  guttural  exclamation. 

"  There  came  to  Capri  about  this  time,"  I 
contmued,  "  a  rich  English  gentleman.  The 
young  girl  fell  in  love  with  him,  and " 


"  Ah^  JDio  !  her  name  ?    Her  name  ?" 

"  Maddalena." 

He  sprang  forward — he  fell  at  my  feet — ^he 
kissed  the  hem  of  my  garment. 

"  Signora — for  the  love  of  God !  Where  is 
she,  dear  signora,  blessed  signora,  la  sorellina 
mia — my  sister,  whom  I  have  sought  with  bleed- 
ing feet  and  aching  heart  ?  Speak,  signora, 
where  is  she  ?" 

"Alas!"  I  said,  almost  as  much  agitated  as 
himself,  "  that  I  can  not  tell  you.  I  only  know 
that  she  was  living  and  well,  a  year  ago." 

"  Did  you  see  her  ?" 

"  A  friend  of  mine  who  had  seen  her,  told 
me  her  story." 

"  Was  she  unhappy  ?" 

"  No — she  was  melancholy ;  very  studious ; 
very  quiet ;  a  student  of  many  books." 

"  And  poor,  signora  ?" 

"No,  not  poor." 

"  And  that  maladetto  Inglese — what  of  him  ? 
Had  he  abandoned  her  ?" 

*  Abandoned  her?  No — that  could  not  be. 
She  was  his  wife." 

"His  wife?" 

"Yes — he  married  her." 

Paolo  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  laughed  bitterly. 

"Impossible,"  said  he.  "She  was  married 
already." 

My  heart  leaped  up  in  my  bosom — my  whole 
being  was  flooded  with  a  tide  of  inexpressible 
joy. 

"  Married  already  ?"  I  repeated.  "But — ^but 
perhaps  a  divorce " 

"  No,  Ao,  no,  signora.  Our  church  knows  no 
divorce.  Besides,  her  husband  is  still  living  in 
Capri." 

I  shaded  my  face  with  my  hand,  lest  it  should 
betray  me.     I  was  dizzy  with  happiness. 

"No,"  continued  Paola,  sternly.  "He  se- 
duced her — he  stole  her  away  from  a  good  man 
and  an  honorable  home.  She  might  have  been 
a  happy  woman  now,  but  for  him,  with  child- 
ren's faces  about  her  hearth," 

"  But  are  you  sure  that  he  stole  her  away  ?" 
I  faltered. 

"  What  does  the  signora  mean  ?" 

"  I — I  have  heard  that  she  fled  to  him  of 
her  own  will,  for  protection — that  he  found  her 
hidden  on  board  his  vessel  after  he  had  put  to 
sea;  and  that,  in  short,  she — threw  herself  upon 
his  mercy." 

Paola  struck  a  heavy  blow  upon  the  table 
with  his  clenched  fist. 

"  I  do  not  believe  it,"  he  said  violently. 

"  I  also  heard  that  she  abhorred  the  man  to 
whom  she  was  married." 

"  I  do  not  believe  that  either.  I  can  under- 
stand that  she  did  not  love  him.  He  was  old — old 
enough  to  be  her  father  ;  but  she  need  not  have 
married  him.  I  would  not  believe  it,  signora, 
unless  she  told  me  so  herself." 

"And  supposing  that  she  did  tell  you  so  her- 
self?" 

"  Then  I  should  despise  her." 

"  Nay,  you  would  forgive  and  pity  her." 

He  paused,  and  passed  his  hand  across  his 
brow. 

"  Well — I  suppose  I  should,  signora,"  he  said, 
slowly.  "  She  was  my  darling.  She  was  like 
my  own  child.  Our  father,  with  his  last  breath, 
bade  me  love  and  cherish  her.  Yes,  poor  Mad- 
dalena— I  should  forgive  her,  and  pity  her." 


iro 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


"  And — and  you  would  forgive  him,  too  ?" 

"  The  Englishman  ?" 

"Yes,  the  Englishman." 

"  I  took  an  oath  that  I  would  be  revenged 
upon  him,"  said  Paolo.  "We  are  not  mere 
peasants,  signora.  We  are  untaught,  and  we 
are  poor ;  but  our  father's  father  could  count 
back  for  generations,  to  the  time  when  our 
name  was  noble,  and  half  the  island  was  ours. 
We  prize  our  honor,  signora,  as  jealously  as  if 
we  were  noble  still ;  and  I  swore  to  avenge  our 
disgrace  upon  Maddalena's  lover,  if  I  ever  met 
him,  face  to  face." 

"  But  if  the  fault  were  hers  ?" 

"  The  disgrace  is  still  ours,  signora," 

"  Then  punish  the  one  who  brought  it  upon 
you — Maddalena  herself." 

"  She  is  punished  long  since,"  replied  Paolo. 
"  Povera  Maddalena !" 

"  But " 

"  But  my  oath,  signora." 

"  To  keep  that  oath  would  be  more  wicked 
than  to  break  it.     Are  you  a  Christian  ?"      '* 

"  Signora,  I  am  an  Italian." 

"Enough,"  I  said,  rising  in  anger.  "You 
shall  never  find  your  sister." 

"  Signora !" 

"  I  know  who  that  Englishman  is.  He  is  the 
dear  friend  of  my  friend,  and  I  will  not  betray 
him  to  your  ignorant  vengeance.  I  could  have 
helped  you.  Now  it  is  over.  They  shall  be 
warned  of  you ;  and  you  will  never  see  Madda- 
lena's face  again." 

He  turned  pale,  and  the  tears  rose  to  his  eyes. 

"  Cara  signora,^''  he  stammered,  "per  pie- 
tcL " 

I  turned  to  the  window ;  but  he  caught  my 
hand. 

"  I — I  will  promise  what  you  please,"  he 
cried ;  "  if — ^if  she  confesses  that  she  fled  to  him 
unasked — I  will  forego  my  oath — I  will  do  any 
thing,  if  you  but  give  me  Maddalena !" 

"  I  can  not  give  her  to  you,"  I  said.  "  I  can 
but  cause  inquiry  to  be  made.  I  know  no  more 
where  she  is  at  this  moment  than  yourself." 

"  Then  will  you  inquire,  signora  ?" 

"I  do  not  know.  How  can  I  be  sure  that 
you  will  keep  faith  with  me  ?" 

"  I  swear  it,  signora." 

"That  is  not  enough." 

He  took  a  little  metal  cross  from  his  bosom, 
fell  on  his  knees,  and  kissed  it  devoutly. 

"  By  my  belief  in  the  mercy  of  God,  and  the 
intercession  of  the  blessed  mother  of  Christ ;  by 
my  hopes  of  forgiveness  in  the  world  to  come ; 
by  my  faith  in  the  holy  Saint  Paolo,  my  patron 
saint ;  and  by  the  memory  of  my  father  and 
mother,  whose  souls  I  trust  are  in  heaven." 

The  solemnity  with  which  he  uttered  this 
pledge  left  no  room  for  doubt. 

"  I  believe  you,"  I  said  ;  "  and  I  will  do  what 
I  can.  In  the  mean  time,  go  back  to  Capri,  and 
leave  all  in  my  hands.  If  any  living  soul  can 
help  you  to  find  your  sister,  I  am  that  person. 
Be  satisfied  with  this  assurance,  and  be  patient. 
It  may  be  months  before  I  succeed  in  even  hear- 
ing of  her  ;  for  I  can  only  use  remote  and  cir- 
cuitous means.  But  such  means  as  I  can  com- 
mand shall  be  employed.  This  you  may  rely 
upon." 

He  rose,  and  kissed  my  hand. . 

"  I  will  pray  for  you,  signora,  night  and  day," 
said  he. 


"  Then  we  understand  each  other  ?" 

"Wholly,  signora." 

"  And  you  consent  to  all  my  conditions  ?" 

"All,  and  absolutely." 

I  was  about  to  open  the  window  and  recall 
Ida,  when  another  thought  occurred  to  me,  and 
I  paused  with  my  hand  upon  the  lock. 

"  What  was  the  name  of  this  Englishman  ?" 
I  asked. 

"  Does  not  the  signora  know  it  ?" 

"  I  can — ascertain  it ;  but  it  might  save  time 
if  you  could  give  it  to  me  co;rrectly." 

"  Alas !  signora,  I  can  not.  My  brother  and 
wife  called  him  Signer  Hugo  ;  but  that  was  only 
his  baptismal  name.  His  other  name  was  harsh 
and  difficult,  and  they  could  not  remember  it." 

"  Well,  we  must  try  to  do  without  it." 

"  Stay,  signora,  I  have  this  book — he  left  it 
at  our  cottage,  and  there  is  writing  in  it.  I  have 
always  carried  it  about  with  me,  in  the  hope 
that  it  might  some  day  be  of  use.  See — here 
are  words  in  pencil !" 

It  was  a  tiny  volume  of  the  Georgics  of  Virgil, 
bound  in  old  stained  vellum,  with  the  initials  H. 
F.  on  the  title-page,  and  a  few  explanatory  notes 
in  his  careless  hand,  scrawled  here  and  there 
upon  the  margins. 

"  Is  this  the  only  proof  you  have  ?" 

"  Yes,  signora." 

"  You  had  better  leave  it  with  me.  To  one 
who  knew  his  writing,  it  might  perhaps  help  to 
identify  him  ;  but  you  are  not  even  sure,  I  sup- 
pose, that  it  is  his  writing  ?" 

"  I  believe  it,  signora  ;  but  I  can  not  be  sure." 

"  Ehhene,  we  must  have  patience." 

"I  have  had  patience  for  so  many  years,  sig- 
nora, that  I  can  well  be  patient  now.  You  have 
given  me  hope,  gentilissima  signora^  and  I  was 
well-nigh  despairing." 

"  Hope,  then,  friend  Paolo ;  and  believe 
that  I  will  do  all  I  can  to  restore  your  lost  sister 
to  her  home." 

"  The  saints  bless  and  watch  over  you,  sig- 
nora." 

I  opened  the  window,  recalled  Ida,  took 
my  baby  from  her  arms,  and  with  a  hasty  kiss 
and  a  whispered  "  thanks,  liehe^""  ran  to  my  bed- 
room, and  locked  the  door.  There  my  first  im- 
pulse was  to  lay  him  down  upon  a  sofa,  fall  on 
my  knees  beside  him,  and  cover  him  with  kisses 
and  tears  of  joy. 

No  stain  now  upon  his  birth  —  no  shame 
attaching  to  hisinnocent  life  —  my  boy,  my  dar- 
ling, my  own !  Some  day  he  shall  bear  his 
ancient  name — some  day,  though  I  may  not  live 
to  see  it,  he  shall  hold  his  own  under  his  an-, 
cestral  roof,  and  keep  up  the  olden  dignity  of 
Farquhar  of  Broomhill !  Oh,  blessed,  blessed 
certainty !  What  a  bright  world  it  had  become 
within  the  short  space  of  this  last  half-hour ;  and 
yet — and  yet  the  tears,  the  foolish,  hot,  rebel- 
lious tears  kept  raining  down,  as  if  I  were  not, 
even  now,  as  happy  as  I  ought  to  be. 

Were  they  tears  of  joy  ? 

A  difficult  question.  They  were  not  tears  of 
sorrow ;  and  yet  there  was  sorrow  in  the  joy, 
and  bitter  minghng  with  the  sweet,  and  shadow 
with  the  sunshine.  Possibly  there  may  also 
have  been  something  of  self-questioning  as  to 
the  past.  At  all  events  I  wept,  and  could  not 
stay  from  weeping. 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


171 


CHAPTER  LX. 

THE   TORSO    OF   THE    BELTEDERE. 

How  was  I  to  keep  my  promise  to  Paolo  ? 
This  question  "teased  me  out  of  thought;" 
haunted  me  by  day,  and  troubled  my  sleep  by 
night.  If  the  disclosure  of  my  real  position 
toward  my  husband  had  been  productive  of 
great  comfort,  it  was  also  fruitful  in  anxieties. 
I  had,  in  truth,  undertaken  a  task  which  I 
knew  not  how  to  fulfill.  I  had  no  one  to 
counsel  me  ;  no  one  to  aid  me.  If  I  sought 
advice  I  betrayed  my  secret.  If  I  set  in- 
quiries on  foot  by  opening  a  correspondence 
with  any  of  my  friends  or  family,  I  betrayed 
my  incognito.  My  pride  forbade  that  I  should 
take  any  steps  which  might  seem  to  pave 
the  way  toward  a  reconciliation  with  my  hus- 
band. My  poverty  made  it  impossible>^hat  I 
should  employ  expensive  and  secret  means  for 
the  prosecution  of  such  inquiries  as  were  neces- 
sary. At  the  same  time,  I  desired  Maddalena's 
removal  with  a  passionate  eargerness  that  only 
made  the  powerlessness  of  my  position  doubly 
bitter.  Tormented  by  doubts,  and  wearied  out 
by  vain  thinking,  I  sadly  needed  some  wise 
friend  upon  whose  judgment  I  could  rest.  My 
own  passions  were  my  only  advisers  ;  and  from 
such  counselors  as  pride,  resentment,  jealousy, 
and  wounded  love,  what  temperate  verdict  could 
be  expected  to  result  ?  In  this  painful  incer- 
titude some  weeks  went  by ;  and  still  nothing 
was  done.  Anxiety  began  to  tell  upon  me,  and 
I  grew  daily  paler  and  thinner.  As  for  Paolo, 
I  avoided  him  as  though  he  were  my  creditor, 
and  shrunk  from  his  questioning  face  like  a 
guilty  creature.  Alas !  how  —  how  was  I  to 
keep  my  promise  ? 

About  this  time,  when  my  boy  was  nearly 
three  months  old,  and  my  perplexities  were  at 
their  bight,  I  fulfilled  another  promise,  long- 
delayed,  and  went  with  Ida  to  the  Vatican.  We 
chose  a  private  day,  locked  up  our  rooms,  and 
took  Goody  with  us  to  carry  the  baby. 

It  was  a  delicious  day,  mild  and  sunny  ;  the 
date,  I  think,  the  second  of  December  ;  the 
atmosphere  May ;  the  sky  a  cloudless  dome  of 
infinite  blue,  softened  by  a  tender  haze  that 
melted  into  gray  on  the  horizon.  We  crossed 
the  courtyard,  in  which  three  or  four  carriages 
were  waiting,-  and  began  with  the  gallery  of  in- 
scriptions, and  the  Museo  Chiaramonti ;  neither 
of  which  possessed  any  attraction  for  my  impa- 
tient companion.  Her  desires  were  winged,  and 
flew  direct  to  the  Transfiguration,  and  the 
Stanze  of  Raflfaelle.  She  longed  to  run,  that 
she  might  be  there  the  sooner.  Thus  we  came 
to  the  vestibule  of  the  Torso,  and  stood  in  pres- 
ence of  that  grand  fragment,  the  divine  ideal 
of  all  physical  power,  which  confers  eternal 
glory  upon  the  name  of  "Apollonius,  son  of 
Nestor  of  Athens."  Here  she  forgot  her  im- 
patience, and  wandered  round  and  round  the 
wondrous  ruin,  silent  in  admiration.  Then  we 
talked  of  Michael  Angelo,  and  his  worshiping 
study  of  it,  and  of  all  he  said  he  owed  to  it 
through  life.  And  then  I  told  Ida  of  how,  when 
he  was  old  and  blind,  he  used  to  cause  himself 
to  be  led  into  the  room  where  it  stood,  that  he 
might  pass  his  wise  hands  over  it  and  feel  the^ 
beauty  that  he  could  no  longer  see. 

"  &estjoli,^^  said  a  grave  voice,  close  by. 


"  Question  de  gout .'"  replied  something  rust- 
ling past  in  silks  and  perfumes. 

"Well !"  ejaculated  a  third,  "/call  it  fright- 
ful rubbish,  and  I  don't  care  who  says  to  the 
contrary." 

"  I  declare,  Barbara,  it's  my  dear  disagreeable 
old  lady  of  Pisa  !"  exclaimed  Ida. 

But  I  had  recognized  her  for  myself  already. 
Turning  involuntarily  at  the  sound  of  those  well- 
known  accents,  I  found  myself  face  to  face 
with — Mrs.  Sandyshaft. 

"Eh?     What?     Mercy  alive!  Hilda— Hilda, 
look  here  !     Bab,  as  I  live  and  breathe  !" 
"  My  dear  aunt !" 

"  Dear  aunt — dear  aunt,  indeed  !  De^  fiddle- 
stick !  There,  what's  the  good  of  kissing,  when 
you've  —  you've — you've  half  broken  my  heart, 
you  —  somebody  give  me  a  smelling-bottle — 
I'm  making  a  fool  of  myself." 

We  both  made  fools  of  ourselves,  if  to  laugh, 
cry,  kiss,  and  speak,  all  in  a  breath,  be  the  way 
to  do  it.  The  truth  was  that  we  loved  each 
other  dearly;  hardly  conscious  of  how  much 
till  we  were  parted,  and  never  demonstrating  it 
unless  under  the  influence  of  strong  emotion. 
Now,  however,  we  clung  together  as  though  we 
never  meant  to  be  parted  again. 

"  Well,  Barbara,"  said  Bifida,  wiping  away  a 
natural  tear  or  two,  "  I  must  say  I  am  very  glad 
to  have  found  you  at  last ;  but  how  could  you 
do  such  a — such  an  excessively  vulgar  thing  as 
to  run  away  in  this  ridiculous  manner  ?" 

"  Yes ;  my  Goodness  Gracious,  yes  !  What 
on  earth  made  you  run  away,  you  little  fool  ?" 
gasped  my  aunt,  wiping  her  eyes  with  one  hand, 
and  holding  me  fast  with  the  other.  "  Why,  in 
heaven's  name,  have  you  made  us  all  miserable 
for  a  whole  twelvemonth  ? — costing  us  a  fortune 
in  advertising,  and  what  not ;  and  dragging  me 
out  of  my  comfortable  home  into  all  manner  of 
filthy,  barbarous,  uncivilized  foreign  countries, 
where  soap  and  water's  an  unknown  luxury, 
and  the  beds  mere  sacks  of  fleas,  if  not  worse ! 
And  at  my  time  of  life  too  !  You  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  yourself,  and  I  hope  yo.u  are  ;  and 
if  you're  not,  you're  worse  than  I  took  you  to 
be!" 

At  which  moment,  the  Count  de  Chauraont, 
who  had  discreetly  retired  into  the  background, 
came  forward,  solemly  polite  as  ever,  and  rais- 
ing his  hat  a  quarter  of  an  inch  from  his  head, 
said — 

^^  Madame,  fai  Vhonneur  de  vous  saluery 
"  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  Bab,"  said  my  aunt, 
when  the  first  shock  of  our  meeting  was  some- 
what over,  "  now  I've  caught  you,  I  don't  mean 
to  lose  sight  of  you.  You  must  come  home  with 
me  to  my  hotel,  and  there  I  shall  keep  you ; 
and  we'll  go  at  once,  too,  and  have  our  talk  out ; 
for  I  must  have  the  whole  story  of  your  ' 
vababondizing,  you  Httle  idiot,  from  beginning 
to  end." 

"But  I  have  a  friend  with  me,"     I  began, 

"  and " 

"  You  must  give  your  friend  her  dismissal  for 
to-day,"  interrupted  my  aunt,  "  and  tell  her 
you  live  in  future  at  the  Hotel  d'Angleterre, 
where  she  may  come  to  see  you,  if  she  likes." 

"  But  we  live  in  lodgings  together " 

"  Live  in  fiddlesticks  together  1  Don't  I  tell 
you,  child,  you  live  with  me  ?  I  won't  be  con- 
tradicted.    Where's  your  friend  ?    Oh,  I 


172 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


that  young  woman  over  yonder.  Well,  go  and 
tell  her  that  I'm  your  aunt,  and  I've  taken  law- 
ful possession  of  you,  and  you're  going  home 
with  me  straightway." 

"  If  I  do,"  said  I,  desperately,  "  I  must  bring 
the  baby. 

"  The  WHAT  ?"  shrieked  my  aunt. 

"  The  baby." 

"  Whose  hahyr 

"  Mine." 

My  aunt  said  not  another  word,  but  deliber- 
ately sat  down  on  an  antique  colossal  foot  near 
which  she  happened  to  be  standing,  and  shut 
her  eyes  in  silence. 

"  This  is  too  much,"  she  said  faintly,  after  a 
pause  of  several  seconds.  "  I  had  not  expected 
this  of  you,  Bab.  To — to  run  away  was  bad 
enough ;  but  to  commit  the  additional  folly  of  a 
baby Ugh!  is  the  monster  here  ?" 

"  He's  not  a  monster  !"  I  replied,  indignantly. 
"He's  the  most  beautiful  baby  you  ever  saw 
in  your  life!" 

"Bring  him  here,"said  my  aunt,  still  with  her 
eyes  shut. 

I  beckoned  to  Goody  to  come  forward. 

"  Now  look,  if  you  please,  aunt,  and  see  if  he 
deserves  to  be  called  a — what  I  can  not  bring 
my  lips  to  call  him  again." 

"Is  he  there?" 

"Yes." 

My  aunt  opened  one  eye  cautiously ;  then 
the  other;  stared  at  him  as  if  he  were  some 
strange  invention ;  touched  his  cheek  with  the 
extreme  tip  of  her  forefinger,  as  if  she  feared 
he  might  explode  like  a  grenade ;  and  said 
nothing. 

"  Really,  a  very  fine  child,"  observed  Hilda, 
patronizingly.     "  How  old  is  he,  dear?" 

"  Nearly  three  months." 

^^  Ifadame,^^  said  the  Count,,  sententiously, 
"^e  vous  enfais  mes  compliments.^^ 

But  still  my  aunt  said  nothing. 

I  felt  piqued ;  and,  not  caring  to  linger  there 
for  her  opinion  on  my  darling,  turned  away,  and 
went  over  to  where  Ida  was  sitting  quietly  in  a 
corner,  waiting  till  I  should  have  time  to  re- 
member her  presence.  A  few  words  of  explana- 
tion sufficed.  We  shook  hands  ;  said  farewell 
for  the  day — and  behold,  on  turning  suddenly 
round,' I  caught  my  aunt  in  the  very  act  of  sur- 
reptitiously kissing  the  baby,  when  she  thought 
I  was  not  looking  ! 


CHAPTER  LXI. 

MRS.    SANDYSHAFT   IN   THE   CHARACTER  OF   A 
MEDIATOR. 

"  And  now,"  said  my  aunt,  drawing  her  chair 
opposite  to  mine,  and  settling  herself  for  a 
thorough  cross-examination ;"  now  that  we  are 
alone  and  quiet,  be  so  good  as  to  tell  me,  Bab, 
what  you  think  of  yourself?" 

Sitting  there,  face  to  face  with  Mrs.  Sandy- 
shaft,  in  that  dreary  private  sitting-room  of  the 
Hotel  d'Angleterre,  with  Goody  and  the  baby 
banished  to  an  adjoining  bedroom,  and  a  search- 
ing semi-judicial  process  coming  on,  I  felt  my- 
self fortified  by  an  unwonted  spirit  of  resistance, 
and  made  up  my  mind  on  no  account  to  say  what 
I  did  think  of  myself,  whatever  the  provocation. 


"  In  what  way  do  you  mean,  my  dear  aunt  ?" 
I  asked,  smiling. 

"  In  every  way.  As  a  niece,  for  instance — as 
a  daughter — as  a  wife.  You  did  not  suppose  it 
would  be  very  pleasant  for  me  to  have  you  run 
away,  heaven  only  knew  where,  and  be  living, 
heaven  only  knew  how — did  you  ?  You  did  not 
suppose  your  father  would  "be  particularly  de- 
lighted to  have  a  public  scandal  attaching  to  his 
daughter's  name — did  you  ?  You  did  not  sup- 
pose you  were  acting  up  to  your  marriage  vows, 
or  doing  much  in  the  way  of  loving,  honoring, 
and  obeying  your  lawful  husband,  when  you  took 
it  into  your  head  to  desert  his  roof— did  you  ? 
A  pretty  dance  you  have  led  all  your  friends,' to 
be  sure  ;  and  a  pretty  goose  you  have  made  of 
yourself,  into  the  bargain  !" ' 

"  My  dear,  dear  aunt,"  I  said,  "  that  i/ou  should 
have  missed  me,  and  grieved  for  me,  and  sought 
for  me — that  you  should  have  departed  from  the 
habits  of  a  long  life,  surmounted  the  prejudices 
of  years,  and  encountered  all  the  discomforts  of 
foreign  travel  for  my  sake " 

"  Discomforts  enough  and  to  spare,  goodness 
knows  !"  ejaculated  my  aunt,  parenthetically. 

" — touches  me  to  a  degree  that  I  hardly  know 
how  to  express  to  you  in  words.  It  fills  me  with 
so  much  gratitude — I  might  almost  say,  with  so 
much  remorse " 

"  Ay,  you  may  say  it  indeed.  Plenty  of  room 
for  it !"  muttered  my  aunt. 

" — to  think  that  any -conduct  of  mine  (how- 
ever justifiable  on  other  grounds)  should  have 
been  the  cause  of  all  this  pain  to  you,  that  I  feel 
I  can  only  offer  you,  in  compensation,  the  devo- 
tion and  companionship  of  my  life.  I  will  never 
leave  you  again,  dear,  if  you  care  to  have  me  !" 

"  Humph !"  said  my  aunt,  softened,  but  du- 
bious. 

"  As  for  my  father,"  I  continued,  "  his  pride 
alone  has  suffered  in  my  disappearance.  He  has 
loved  me  so  little  all  my  life,  that  I  must  confess 
I  attach  but  trifling  importance  to  any  effect  my 
conduct  may  have  produced  upon  him." 

"  Well,  so  far,  that's  all  well  and  good,"  re- 
plied my  aunt,  "  but  as  for  your  husband ^" 

"  As  for  Mr.  Farquhar,  aunt,  you  are,  certainly, 
the  last  person  by  whom  I  should  expect  to  be 
called  to  account  in  this  question  of  separa- 
tion." 

"  And  why  so,  pray  ?"  asked  she,  sharply, 

"  Because  you  never  liked  him — at  least,  never 
since  he  became  my  husband." 

"  I've  liked  him  a  vast  deal  better,  poor  fel- 
low !  since  your  misconduct  toward  him,"  said 
she,  with  a  resolute  shake  of  the  head. 

"  And  because  you  were  so  annoyed  and  disap- 
pointed, on  learning  the  choice  I  haid  made." 

"  No  reason  why  I  should  not  wish  you  to  con- 
duct yourself  like  a  respectable  married  woman, 
when  once  you  had  made  it !" 

"  And  because,  whenever  you  found  the  oppor- 
tunity, you  said  every  thing  in  your  power  to  un- 
settle my  faith  in  his  stabiUty,  and  my  respect 
for  himself." 

"  More  fool  I !"  said  my  aunt.  "  I  ought  to 
have  known  better." 

I  did  not  contradict  her.  I  had  come  to  the 
end  of  my  retort  in  all  its  clauses,  and  waited 
for  what  she  should  say  next. 

"  And  pray  where  have  you  been  these  twelve 
months  ?"  asked  she,  after  a  brief  pause. 


BARBARA'S   HISTORY. 


173 


"  Here — in  Rome." 

•'  Humph !  and  what  have  you  been  doing  ?" 

"Well,  I  had  a  brain-fever,  to  begin  with,  and 
lay  ill  at  Civita  Vecchia  for  several  weeks.  Since 
then,  I  have  supported  myself  by  copying  the  old 
masters." 

"Are  you  in  debt?" 

"  Not  a  farthing — stay  ;  I  must  not  forget  that 
I  owe  my  old  servant  fifty  pounds,  which  were 
the  savings  of  her  whole  life,  and  which  she  lent 
to  me  when  we  left — Broomhill." 

"  She  shall  have  them  back  to-day,"  said  Mrs. 
Sandyshaft,  promptly.  "  And  now,  ma'am,  may 
I  make  so  bold  as  to  inquire  what  your  name 
may  have  been  all  this  time  ;  for  if  it  had  been 
either  Farquhar  or  Churchill,  I  must  have  found 
you  long  since." 

*'Ihave  called  myself  Mrs.  Carlyon." 

"  Carlyon,"  repeated  she,  musingly.  ^"  Carl- 
yon— I'm  sure  I've  heard  the  name  somewhere. 
Bless  you  !  I  have  had  the  passport  books 
searched  at  all  the  principal  ports,  and  the  Lord 
knows  what  besides  ;  but  it  was  no  good.  No- 
body could  tell  me  any  thing  about  you;  and 
here  you  turn  up,  at  last,  by  chance !  Just  like 
your  perversity." 

"  You  would  rather  have  hunted  me  down,  I 
suppose,  in  fair  chase,"  said  I,  with  a  laugh. 

"  I  would  rather  have  had  something  for  my 
money,"  replied  Mrs.  Sandyshaft.  "  Why,  Bab, 
you  scamp,  you've  cost  me — well,  never  mind 
what  you've  cost  me.  More  than  you're  worth 
from  head  to  foot,  I  can  tell  you.  As  for  Hugh, 
he's  spent  hundreds  in  the  search." 

"  Indeed  ?" 

"  Indeed  !"  echoed  my  aunt,  angrily.  "  You 
may  curl  up  your  lip,  and  drawl  ^  indeed  '  as  su- 
perciliously as  you  please ;  but  he's  worth  a  dozen 
of  you,  for  all  that !  And  you've  never  once 
asked  for  him  yet  !  You  don't  know  whether 
he's  alive  or  dead,  I  suppose  ?  *No — not  you. 
He  may  be  dead  twice  over,  for  aught  you  can 
tell." 

"  He  may  be  dead,  my  dear  aunt,"  said  I,  af- 
fecting a  profound  indifference ;  "  but  I  do  not 
really  see  how  he  could  possibly  be  so  twice 
over." 

"  We  all  die  twice,"  replied  she.  "  The  first 
time  is  when  we  simply  cease  to  be  ;  the  second, 
when  we  are  forgotten." 

"  Dear  aunt,"  I  exclaimed,  "  that  is  very  well 
said  !" 

"  Well  said,  or  ill  said,  it's  nothing  to  the 
purpose,"  she  retorted  sharply.  "  You  needn't 
trouble  to  compliment  me.  I  don't  value  it  one 
farthing.  I  value  good  feeling,  and  common- 
sense,  and  principle,  a  mighty  deal  more  than 
compliments,  I  can  tell  you." 

"I  hope,"  said  I,  turning  red  and  feeling 
somewhat  nettled,  "  that  you  do  not  think  me 
wanting  in  either  good   feeling  or  principle  ?" 

"  Indeed  I  do,  though.  A  woman  who  runs 
away  from  her  husband  for  no  reasonable 
cause " 

•'  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  had  what  seemed  to 
me  an  absolutely  reasonable  cause." 

"  Fiddlededee  !  you  acted  on  mad  impulse. 
Reason  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  it." 

"  Again,  I  must  beg  your  pardon " 

"  You'd  better  beg  your  husband's  pardon," 
interrupted  my  aunt. 

"  Yoa  can  not  tell  under  what  impressions  I 
acted  or  what  provocation  I  received." 


"  Then  you're  just  wrong ;  for  I  know  all 
about  it,  from  beginning  to  end." 

"  How " 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Bab,  and  I'll  tell  you. 
The  night  you  came  home  from  Lord  Bayham's 
ball,  you  overheard  a  conversation  between  your 
husband  and— somebody  else.  You  interpreted 
what  you  heard  according  to  your  notions. 
You  asked  for  no  explanations.  You  sought  no- 
body's advice.  You 'reasoned'  about  as  much 
as  a  child  that's  frightened  by  a  shadow.  The 
consequence  was  that  you  acted  like  a  fool,  and 
ran  away.  I  dare  say  you  thought  it  very  fine,  and 
heroic,  and  dramatic,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 
Nobody  else  did  ;  that's  one  comfort." 

"  But  how  do  you  know  that  I  overheard  that 
conversation,  and  how  can  you  tell  what  that 
conversation  was  about  ?" 

"  You  goose,  you  dropped  something  down 
by  the  door  at  which  you  listened — some  trinket 
or  another,  that  was  found  there  afterward  by 
the  servants,  and  given  to  your  husband.  Of 
course,  the  mystery  of  your  flight  was  at  once 
explained.  He  remembered  all  that  had  been 
said,  and  guessed  the  wise  conclusions  to  which 
you  had  jumped.    It  was  as  plain  as  a  pikestaff." 

"  And  then,  I  suppose,  went  to  you  with  the 
story  of  his  wrongs,"  said  I,  bitterly. 

"  He  came  to  me,"  replied  my  aunt,  very 
gravely,  "  believing  that  I  knew  where  to  find 
you  —  full  of  regret  for  all  his  past  follies,  and 
of  self-reproach  for  every  weak  concession  of 
which  he  had  been  guilty.  Full  of  love  and 
pity  for  you,  also  —  which  you  didn't  deserve. 
You  heard  her  ask  him  to  call  her  wife,  and  he 
was  ass  enough  to  do  it.  She  was  no  more  his 
wife  than  I'm  his  grandmother." 

"  I  know  that  now,"  said  I;  "but  I  would 
not  believe  an  angel  from  heaven  who  should 
tell  me  she  was  never  his  mistress  !" 

"  Of  course  she  was  his  mistress — he  doesn't 
deny  it ;  but  that  was  twelve  or  thirteen  years 
ago." 

"  He  seduced  her  away  from  a  good  husband 
and  a  respectable  home,"  said  I,  quoting  Paolo, 
"  and  brought  her " 

"He  did  no  such  a  thing,"  interposed  my 
aunt.  "  She  fell  in  love  with  him,  and  hid  her- 
self on  board  his  yacht,  like  a  bold  hussy  as  she 
was !" 

"  Oh,  of  course  you  defend  him,  if  only  to 
blame  me!"  I  exclaimed,  working  myself  up  to 
a  pitch  of  genuine  anger.  "  Perhaps  you  are 
of  opinion  that  an  English  gentleman  may 
with  propriety  maintain  his  wife  and  his  mistress 
under  the  same  roof?" 

"  I  think  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  cannot  so 
much  blame  him  for  having  yielded  to  the  first 
temptation,  when  he  was  young,  and  free,  and 
the  woman  threw  herself  at  his  feet.  No  man 
could  have  helped  himself  in  such  a  case — un- 
less it  was  Saint  Anthony ;  and  I'm  not  one  of 
those  who  believe  in  your  miracles  of  virtue. 
But  what  I  blame  him  for,  was  letting  her  re- 
main at  Broomhill  after  he  had  brought  you 
home.     There  wa^his  great  fault." 

"A  fault  which  nothing  can  excuse." 

"  Humph  !  I  won't  say  that,  Bab.  I  won't 
say  that.  The  poor  thing  was  nothing  to  him 
but  a  woman  who  had  loved  him  to  her  own  cost 
and  suffering — who  had  been  nothing  to  him  for 
years  and  years  before  he  cared  for  you  —  who 
had  given  all  her  mind  up  to  books  and  study ; 


174 


BARBARA'S   HISTORY. 


and  whose  only  happiness  in  life  was  to  live  like 
a  mouse  under  a  corner  of  his  roof,  and  take 
care  of  his  library,  and  kiss  the  dust  he  trod 
upon,  if  he  would  but  let  her.  He  hadn't  the 
heart  to  turn  her  out,  Bab.  It  was  weak.  It 
was  culpably  weak ;  but  the  last  straw  breaks 
the  camel's  back,  Bab — and  the  last  blow  some- 
times breaks  a  woman's  heart.  She  might  have 
died,  Bab  ;  and  that  wouldn't  have  been  a  pleas- 
ant thought  for  Hugh  Farquhar,  all  the  rest  of 
his  life." 

"  Hugh  Farquhar  seems  to  have  found  an  ex- 
cellent advocate,"  said  I,  steeling  myself  against 
compassion. 

"  That  was  his  first  great  fault,"  continued 
Mrs.  Sandy^haft,  taking  no  notice  of  my  observ- 
ation. "  The  second  was  just  such  another  piece 
of  weakness.  When  you  found  out  that  she 
lived  in  the  house,  he  should  have  trusted  to  your 
generosity,  and  told  you  all.  Half-truths  often 
do  more  mischief  than  lies.  If  that's  a  proverb, 
it's  one  of  my  own  making.  It's  true  anyhow, 
and  here's  a  case  in  point." 

"  Any  other  woman  wolild  have  felt  and  be- 
lieved as  I  did." 

"  Very  likely ;  but  she  woufdn't  have  run  away 
as  you  did,  without  waiting  to  ask  whether  her 
beliefs  and  feelings  were  founded  on  facts." 

"I — I  confess  that  I  acted  hastily,"  said  I,  re- 
luctantly. 

"  The  first  word  of  sense  you've  spoken  yet," 

*'  I'm  much  obliged  to  you." 

*'  Bab — will  you  listen  to  good  advice  if  one 
takes  the  trouble  to  offer  it  ?" 

"Certainly." 

"  Then  just  sit  down  at  my  desk  yonder,  and 
write  to  your  husband.  You  confess  you  acted 
hastily — confess^t  to  him.  Say  you're  sorry  for 
your  own  follies,  and  ready  to  forgive  his ;  and 
make  an  end  of  the  matter." 

"  I'll  do  no  such  thing — I  would  die  first !" 

"And  why,  pray?" 

"Because  it  is  he  who  has  been  in  the  wrong 
from  first  to  last.  I  committed  an  error  of  pre- 
cipitation— he  a  deliberate  offense.  You  seem 
to  forget,  aunt,  how  my  pride  has  been  insulted, 
and  my  trust  deceived !" 

"  I  grant  he  was  a  great  fool  to  keep  her  there, 
and  worse  than  a  fool  not  to  admit  all  while  he 
was  about  it ;  but  there  !  he's  suffered  enough  for 
his  faults,  goodness  knows." 

"  He  deserved  to  suffer,"  said  I ;  "but  what 
have  his  sufferings  been,  compared  with  mine  ?" 

"Pretty  equal,  I  should  say,"  observed  my 
aunt,  coolly. 

"  Nay,  this  is  too  much !  Has  he  suffered 
jealousy,  fever,  despair,  exile,  shame  ?  Has  he 
believed  our  marriage  illegal  ?  Has  he  under- 
gone the  misery  of  toiling  for  his  daily  bread 
under  every  pressure  of  mental  unrest  and  physi- 
cal weakness?" 

"  He  has  been  ill  both  in  body  and  mind  ;  and 
as  for  unrest,  one  would  think  the  poor  man  had 
St.  Vitus's  dance,  to  see  him  always  pacing  up 
and  down  the  room  ;  getting  up  from  his  chair 
as  soon  as  he  has  sat  down ;  wandering  about 
the  park  and  the  roads  in  all  weathers ;  off"  to-day 
to  London  ;  back  again  to-morrow  atBroomhill ; 
off"  to  Dover,  or  Calais,  or  Marseilles  the  next 
day ;  coming  back  after  having  traveled  day  and 
night  for  a  week,  with  his  clothes  all  covered 
with  mud  and  dust,  and  his  hat  so  battered  that 


you  wouldn't  pick  it  out  of  the  gutter,  and  his 
neckcloth  tied  all  on  one  side,  as  if  he  was  go- 
ing to  be  hanged  by  it !  I'm  sure  I've  often 
thought  he  looked  more  like  a  maniac  than  a 
man  in  his  senses.  And  then  he  begins  a  sen- 
tence and  stops,  forgetting  what  he  meant  to  say 
next ;  and  then  pulls  a  map  out  of  his  pocket, 
and  begins  to  show  you  how  his  wife  must  have 
gone  in  this  direction,  or  that ;  and  how,  if  he 
had  only  thought  of  it  sooner,  he  must  have 
overtaken  her !  Then  he  looks  twenty  years 
older ;  for  what  with  his  bad  nights,  and  his  gray 
hairs " 

"  Gray  hairs?"  I  exclaimed.  "  Hugh  Farqu- 
har gray  ?" 

"  As  a  badger,"  replied  my  aunt ;  "  and  as  thin 
and  pallid  as  if  he  had  lived  on  opium  all  his  life. 
Nobody  who  hadn't  seen  him  within  the  last 
year  would  know  him  in  the  street.  Why,  the 
perpetual  traveling  would  alone  have  killed 
most  men.  He's  been  twice  to  Zollenstrasse ; 
ever  so  many  times  to  Paris ;  once  here,  as  far 
as  Rome,  even — and  never  with  any  reward  for 
his  pains.  But  what's  the  good  of  telling  you 
all  this  ?    You  don't  care  to  hear  it !" 

"  I  do  care,  indeed,"  I  said,  unable  to  control 
the  faltering  of  my  voice,  and  turning  away,  so 
as  to  shade  my  face  with  my  hand. 

"  Humph  !  if  you  did,  you'd  write  the  letter." 

"  No,  Aunt  Sandyshaft,"  I  replied,  struggling 
to  speak  firmly.  "  I  would  not  write  the  let- 
ter.;  I  —  I  can  not  but  grieve  at  the  picture 
you  put  before  me.  It  wrings  my  heart  to  know 
that  the  husband  whom  I  have  so  much  loved — 
whom  I  still  so  much  love — should  be  so  changed 
and  shattered ;  but — but  if  my  heart  were  to 
'  break  for  it,  nothing  should  induce  me  to  write 
that  letter.  Nothing — so  it  is  mere  waste  of 
time  to  ask  me." 

"  All  very  fine,"  said  my  aunt ;  "  but  what 
.does  it  mean?  I  suppose  you  don't  intend  to 
stay  in  Rome  all  the  rest  of  your  days,  and  live 
by  copying  the  old  masters,  as  you  call  'em  ?" 

"  I  did  not  say  that." 

"What  do  you  say  then?  Speak  plain  Eng- 
lish, Bab ;  for  I  don't  understand  heroics." 

"It  means  this,  aunt — that  before  I  touch  his 
hand  again  in  reconciliation,  before  I  cross  his 
threshold  as  his  wife,  that  woman  must  be  giv§n 
back  to  her  own  people,  and  banished  out  of  my 
sight  forever.  As  to  tolerating  her  beneath  my 
roof " 

"  Nobody's  asked  you  to  tolerate  her,"  inter- 
rupted Mrs.  Sandyshaft.  "Of  course  she'll  be 
sent  away,  neck  and  crop.  Do  you  think  7 'df  let 
you  go  back,  with  that  hussy  in  the  house  ?" 

"  Let  all  this  be  done ;  and  let  him  ask  my 
pardon  for  not  having  done  it  before  I  ever 
passed  the  gates  of  Broomhill,  and  then -" 

"  And  then,  when  there's  nothing  left  to  write 
about,  and  he's  probably  rushed  off  to  Rome  as 
if  he'd  been  shot  out  of  a  cannon,  you'll  conde- 
scend to  write.     Is  that  it,  Bab  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Oh,  very  well ;  then  we  understand  each 
other.  But"  in  the  mean  time  somebody  must  in- 
form him  that  your  ladyship  is  found,  and  com- 
municate your  high  and  mighty  conditions— eh  ?" 

"  Clearly  ;  but  I  must  dictate  the  letter." 

"Who's  to  write  it?" 

"  Nobody  so  fit  as  yourself." 

"  Then  I  write  it  my  own  way — ^thalte  flat." 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


175 


"  Nonsense,  my  dear  aunt !  In  a  matter  so 
utterly  concerning  myself " 

"I'm  not  a  puppet,"  said  Mrs.  Sandyshaft, 
with  an  obstinate  jerk  of  the  head.  "I've  ca- 
pacity enough  to  write  a  simple  letter,  I  should 
hope ;  and  I  won't  write  at  any  body's  dictation, 
if  I  know  it." 

"  But  this  is  not  a  '  simple  '  letter.  It  is  a 
very  important  letter ;  and  a  great  deal  depends 
on  the  way  in  which  it  is  worded.  My  own  dig- 
nity and  self-respect  demand  that " 

"  Bother  your  dignity  and  self-respect !  Think 
a  little  less  about  both,  Bab,  and  more  about 
that  poor,  miserable  fellow,  who's  never  known 
a  moment's  peace,  day  or  night,  since  you  left 
him.  And  as  for  the  letter,  tell  me  what  you 
want  said,  and  I'll  say  it ;  but  I  won't  have  it 
dictated." 

"  Then  I  won't  have  it  written."  ^ 

*'  Oh,  very  well !    Please  yourself." 

"  And,  remember,  Aunt  Sandyshaft,  that  it  is 
you,  now,  who  are  raising  up  obstacles." 

"  Fiddlededee  1" 

"And — and  some  day,"  sobbed  I,  "you'll 
perhaps,  be  sorry  that  —  that  you  re  —  re  — 
fused — ^" 

"Bab,  this  is  temper — temper  and  nothing 
else.  It  won't  do  with  me.  You  may  write 
your  letter  yourself,  if  you  like  ;  or  you  may  get 
Hilda  to  write  it.  But  if  I  do  it,  I  do  it  my  own 
way,  and  there's  an  end  of  it." 

At  this  moment  there  came  a  gentle  tap  at 
the  door,  and  Goody  looked  in. 

"  It's  past  three  o'clock',  deary,  and  asking 
your  pardon,  ma'am,  for  the  intrusion,  but  the 
dear  blessed  little  angel  is  very  restless  ;  audit's 
getting  dusk  already ;  and  out  after  dark,  my 
lamb,  he  should  not  be." 

"  That's  quite  true,  GoOdy,  and  I  was  a  cruel, 
thoughtless  creature  to  forget  it.  There,  you 
see,  I've  only  my  bonnet  to  put  on,  and  I'm 
ready  in  a  moment.  Good-by,  Aunt  Sandyshaft 
— here  is  my  address,  if  you  care  to  come  and 
see  me.  It's  close  by — not  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
hence ;  and — and  if,  after  I  am  gone,  you  think 
better  of  your  decision,  and  like  to  come  round 
and  take  tea  with  me  at  seven  o'clock,  we  can 
talk  over  the  subject  of  the  letter.  I  am  sure 
you  will  think  differently  when  you  have  time  to 
reflect.  Give  my  love  to  Hilda,  and  tpll  her  I 
hope  to  see  her  again  to-morrow.  Here,  Goody 
— give  the  darling  to  me.  I  will  carry  him  down- 
stairs myself." 

And  with  this,  I  hurried  away,  down  the 
great  stone  staircase,  and  home  by  the  back 
streets  and  short  cuts,  as  fast  as  I  could  walk ; 
pausing  only  once,  for  a  couple  of  minutes,  at 
the  English  baker's  in  the  Via  Condotti,  to  buy 
some  English  muffins  for  my  aunt's  tea. 

For  I  felt  certain  she  would  come. 

How  slowly  the  hours  of  that  afternoon  went 
by  !  How  restless  I  was,  and  how  my  certainty 
faded  away  and  diminished  as  seven  o'clock  drew 
near ! 

"  She  is  so  obstinate^"  thought  I.  "  She  never 
can  see  that  she  has  been  in  the  wrong.  But 
then  she  is  just,  after  all ;  and  she  must  admit 
that  I  have  a  right  to  the  principal  voice  in  a 
matter  so  vitally  concerning  myself.  Will  she 
come?  Or  will  she  pique  herself  on  staying 
away,  and  making  me  go  to  her  first  ?  If  she 
meant  to  come,  she  would  surely  be  here  now ! 
and  yet " 


I  went  to  the  bedroom  window  every  mo- 
ment. I  heaped  fresh  logs  on  the  fire ;  placed 
her  chair  ready  in  the  warmest  corner ;  trimmed 
the  lamp ;  peeped  at  the  muffins ;  solaced  my- 
self every  now  and  then  with  a  cautious  glance 
at  my  darling  sleeping  in  his  little  cot ;  and  lis- 
tened, with  a  beating  heart,  to  every  sound  upon 
the  stairs.  At  last,  just  as  my  watch  pointed 
to  a  quarter  past  the  time,  and  I  was  ready  to 
sit  down  and  weep  for  disappointment,  the  door 
opafifed  and  my  aunt  walked  in. 

I  sprang  to  meet  her  with  a  cry  of  delight — 
kissed  her — helped  her  off  with  her  cloak — ran 
to  fetch  a  stool  for  her  feet — poured  out  our 
first  cups  of  tea,  and,  having  helped  her  to  a 
slice  of  muffin,  took  her  by  both  hands,  and 
said — 

"  Now,  you  dear  old  thing,  since  you  have 
been  so  nice,  and  kind,  and  good,  and  have 
yielded  this  point  so  sweetly,  I'll  yield  a  point 
too.  You  shall  write  the  letter  your  own  way, 
while  you're  here  to-night ;  and  I'll  just  look 
over  your  shoulder,  and  put  in  a  word  here  and 
there." 

"  Humph !  the  post  went  out  at  four,  my 
dear,"  replied  my  aunt,  drily,  "  and  my  letter 
with  it.  But  I  thought  I'd  come  and  tell  you — 
and,  upon  my  word,  this  is  the  first  drop  of  tea, 
deserving  the  name  of  tea,  that  I've  tasted  since 
I  left  England." 


CHAPTER    LXII. 

susPEisrsE. 

Hugh,  it  appeared,  was  on  the  point  of  start- 
ing for  Chambery  when  my  aunt  last  heard  from 
him,  and  had  requested  her,  in  case  of  emergen- 
cy, to  write  to  him  at  that  place.  He  was  led 
thither,  it  seemed,  by  some  vague  report,  hop- 
ing against  hope,  but  prepared  for  the  inevita- 
ble disappointment  which  always  awaited  him. 
"  I  go,"  he  wrote,  "  but  I  know  beforehand  that 
I  go  in  vain.  She  is  lost  to  me  forever.  Some 
day,  perhaps,  when  I  am  quite  worn  out  Avith 
long  seeking,  I  may  find  her  grave  in  some  soli- 
tary spot,  among  the  graves  of  strangers.  God 
grant  it !  I  would  fain  die  there,  and  be  laid 
beside  her."  My  aunt  gave  me  this  letter.  I 
carried  it  in  my  bosom  by  day ;  slept  with  it 
under  my  pillow  at  night ;  blistered  it  all  over 
with  my  tears.  Mine  was  a  mere  make-believe 
stoicism,  surface-deep  and  sadly  transparent,  af- 
ter all. 

From  Rome  to  Chambery: — I  looked  in  the 
map,  and  was  dismayed  to  see  how  far  apart 
they  lay,  and  what  a  world  of  mountains  lay  be- 
tween. I  went  down  to  the  post-office,  and  was 
told  that  letters  to  Chambery  might  be  dis- 
patched via  Turin  or  Marseilles.  In  either  case 
they  would  take  from  five  to  six  days— as  long 
as  if  sent  to  London !  I  then  made  my  way  to 
the  Hotel  d'Angleterre,  to  ask  Mrs.  Sandyshaft 
by  which  route  she  had  directed  her  letter  to  be 
forwarded;  and  received  for  answer  that  she 
"  hadn't  troubled  her  head  about  routes,  or 
branches  either.  Not  she.  She  had  just  put 
Post  Office,  Chambery,  Savoy— and  quite 
enough.  The  Where  was  all  that  concerned 
her ;  the  How  she  left  to  those  whose  business 
it  was  to  convey  it." 

Thus  poorly  comforted,  I  could  only  sit  down 
patiently,  counting  out  each  lagging  hour  of  the 


ire 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


six  long  days,  and  feeding  my  imagination  with 
conjectures  of  every  possible  calamity  that 
might  befall  my  aunt's  letter. 

Supposing,  now,  that  the  address  was  illegi- 
ble !  A  hand  more  essentially  crabbed  and  dis- 
tort, when  written  in  haste,  it  would  be  difficult 
to  conceive.  And  she  must  have  written  in 
haste  ;  for  it  was  past  three  when  I  left  her,  and 
the  letter  had  to  be  posted  by  four  o'clock.  Sup- 
posing, on  the  other  hand,  that  it  went  via  Tu- 
rin, and  the  mail  was  robbed  among  the  mount- 
ains —  or  by  sea,  and  the  steamer  were  lost  ? 
Supposing,  even,  that  it  arrived  safely  at  Cham- 
bery,  and  Hugh  were  gone  before  it  came  ? 
Would  it,  in  that  case,  be  forwarded  to  Broom- 
hill  ?  or  would  it  lie  there  month  after  month, 
dusty  and  unclaimed,  with  its  words  of  hope  and 
comfort  all  unread  ? 

Thus  five  days  went  by.  On  the  fifth,  I  said, 
"  To-morrow  he  will  receive  it."  On  the  sixth, 
"  To-day  it  is  his."  I  fancied  him  calling  list- 
lessly at  the  post-office  as  he  passed  by  ;  or  find- 
ing it  in  the  morning  on  his  bredkfast-table. 
I  pictured  to  myself  the  impatient  sigh  with 
which  he  would  toss  it  aside,  incredulous  of  any 
good  it  might  contain  —  the  reluctance  with 
which  he  would  presently  break  the  seal — the 
sudden  flash  lighting  up  his  poor  pale  face — 
the  bound  that  he  would  make  to  the  bell ;  the 
ringmg  voice  in  which  he  would  call  for  post- 
horses  ;  the  instantaneous  transition  from  apathy 
to  energy,  from  that  state  of  hope  deferred 
which  maketh  the  heart  sick,  to  hope  fulfilled, 
glowing,  radiant,  and  instinct  with  vitality. 

As  the  day  advanced,  and  the  evening  drew 
on,  I  said  to  myself,  "  He  is  on  his  way.  He 
will  travel  day  and  night.  Every  mile  will 
seem  a  league  to  his  impatience,  and  every  hour 
a  week."  Then  I  calculated  how  long  the 
journey  would  take  him,  if  he  came  by  Turin, 
Genoa,  and  the  sea ;  and  found  that  he  might 
quite  possibly  arrive  by  the  evening  of  the 
third  day.  At  this  thought,  I  trembled  and 
turned  pale. 

Only  two  days  more  !  I  could  not  believe  it. 
My  aunt  came  to  sit  with  me  in  the  morning, 
while  I  was  painting;  and  Hilda  brought  her 
carriage  to  take  me  for  a  drive,  later  in  the  day. 
I  forget  where  we  went,  or  what  was  said  or  done 
by  the  way.     I  thought  of  nothing  but  Hugh. 

Only  one  day  more!  I  went  through  my 
morning's  work  mechanically,  breaking  oflF,  every 
now  and  then,  to  kiss  my  baby,  and  whisper  in 
his  little  uncomprehending  ear —  "  to-morrow, 
to-morrow,  my  angel,  thou  shalt  lie  in  thy  fa- 
ther's arms  !"  To  Paolo  I  said,  "  Wait  with  pa- 
tience.   We  shall  soon  have  news  of  Maddalena." 

The  last  day  passed  as  if  in  a  dream.  I  could 
neither  paint,  nor  talk,  nor  sit  still ;  and  so  stole 
away  quietly  to  the  gardens  of  the  Pincio,  and 
wandered  about  the  sunny  walks  alone.  At 
dinner,  I  literally  fasted.  In  the  evening,  my 
nervous  excitement  became  so  painfully  un- 
controllable that  if  only  the  ashes  collapsed 
on  the  hearth,  or  the  windows  shook,  I 
trembled  from  head  to  foot.  He  would  go 
direct  to  my  aunt,  at  the  Hotel  d'Angle- 
terre;  and  she  would  send  him  on  to  the 
Vicolo  d'Aliberti.  Fancy  his  footsteps  on  the 
stairs!  Fancy  the  joy  of  being  folded  once 
more  in  his  arms,  and  weeping  out  the  last  of  so 
many    bitter    tears   upon    his    bosom  1    Then 


came  the  painful  remembrance  of  how  altered 
he  must  be ;  and  I  tried  to  prepare  myself  for 
the  cruel  fines  channeled  on  his  brow,  and  the 
gray  hairs  sprinkling  his  dark  locks,  once  so  free 
from  change.  Thus  the  evening  hours  trailed ' 
slowly  by,  and  midnight  came  and  no  Hugh. 
At  one  o'clock,  Ida  stole  down-stairs,  entreating 
me  to  go  to  bed;  but  of  what  avail  would 
it  have  been  to  do  so,  with  every  nerve  of  body 
and  brain  strung  to  the  keenest  wakefulness? 
Finding  persuasion  useless,  she  sat  up  with  me, 
prepared  to  retreat  at  the  first  intimation  of  his 
coming.  Thus  the  night  wore  on,  and  the  ex- 
pectations which,  a  few  hours  since,  had  been 
certainties,  turned  to  doubts  and  apprehensions. 
At  length  six  o'clock  struck ;  and,  worn  out 
with  watching,  I  waked  Ida,  who  had  fallen 
asleep  in  her  chair,  and  we  both  went  to  bed. 

I  slept  heavily  for  a  few  hours,  and  woke  to 
find  Mrs.  Sandyshaft  at  my  bedside. 

"Is  he  come  ?"  were  the  words  that. sprung 
instantaneously  to  my  lips. 

"  No,  child.     He  hasn't  wings." 

"But  it  is  now  three  days  and  three  nights 
since  he  received  the  letter  1" 

"  You  goose !  Suppose  he  finds  the  mountain 
roads  blocked  up  with  snow  between  Chambery 
and  Lyons?  Suppose,  when  he  gets  to  Mar- 
seilles, he  finds  no  steamer  ready  to  start  ?  Sup- 
pose he  had  left  Chambery  for  some  other  place 
— say  Paris — when  the  letter  arrived,  and  it  had 
to  be  forwarded — what  then  ?" 

What  then,  indeed!  I  sank  back  upon  my 
pillow  with  a  weary  sigh,  and  said — 

"  Well — any  of  these  things  might  be  ;  but  in 
such  case,  when — when  will  he  come  ?" 

"  Impossible  to  say — ^but  within  a  week,  no 
doubt." 

"  A  week !    Another  long  week !" 

"And  in  the  mean  time,"  added  she,  "  I'd 
advise  you  not  to  make  it  your  practice  to  sit 
up  every  night.  It  won't  bring  him  one  bit  the 
sooner." 

"  How  long  is  it,  Aunt  Sandyshaft,  since  you 
last  saw  him  ?"  I  asked,  presently. 

"  Not  since  I  made  up  my  mind  to  join  Hilda 
and  her  precious  Count  out  here  in  Italy.  He 
came  with  me  as  far  as  Marseilles — and  I'm  sure 
I  don't  knOw  what  would  have  become  of  me  on 
the  way,  if  he  hadn't  —  and  saw  me  safe  on 
board  the  Leghorn  boat  before  he  left  me." 

"  That  was  kind  of  him!"  I  said,  warmly. 

"  Humph !  it  was  civil ;  but  nothing  wonder- 
ful," repUed  my  aunt,  with  a  sharp  side-glance 
at  me. 

"And  then  what  did  he  do ?" 

"  Went  back  to  England,  I  believe.  At  all 
events,  his  first  letter  to  me  was  dated  from 
Broomhill." 

"  And  you  have  only  had  two  from  him, 
you  say  ?" 

"  Only  two,  one  of  which  you  have." 

"And  the  other  you  destroyed.  Are  you  quite 
sure  you  destroyed  it,  aunt  ?" 

"  Bless  my  heart,  yes  ;  and  saw  the  sparks  fly 
up  the  chimney.  I  only  kept  this  one,  for  fear  I 
should  forget  the  name  of  the  place.  Rubbish- 
storing,  Bab,  has  never  been  a  failing  of  mine." 

Rubbish !     She  called  his  letter  rubbish  ! 

"I  suppose,"  I  said,  after  another  pause,  "he 
concludes  you  are  in  Rome  by  this  time  ?" 

"  I  don't  see  how  that's  likely,  for  I  hadn't 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


irr 


concluded  it  myself  when  I  replied  to  his  letter. 
The  De  Chaumonts,  at  that  time,  talked  of  spend- 
ing the  winter  in  Naples  ;  but  Hilda,  as  usual, 
changed  her  mind  at  the  last  moment,  and  came 
here  instead.  To  me,  one  place  was  the  same 
as  another ;  and  you  were  as  likely  to  be  found 
in  Rome  as  in  Naples,  if  in  either.  As  for 
Hugh  Farquhar,  if  he  supposes  any  thing,  he 
supposes  I'm  in  South  Italy,  scrambling  up 
Mount  Vesuvius.  By  the  by,  Bab,  did  I  tell 
you  that  your  father  had  settled  in  Brussels?" 
"  No — you  had  not  mentioned  it." 
"  He  has,  then.  They  have  taken  rooms  in  a 
fashionable  quarter ;  and  go  to  court ;  and  drive 
out  every  day  in  their  own  barouche  (jobbing 
the  horses,)  and  give  fortnightly  receptions, 
with  nothing  to  eat ;  and  are  mighty  fine  folks, 
indeed,  in  a  small  way.  That  just  suits  your 
father.  Edmund  Churchill,  Esquire,  wa^^lways 
a  grand  man,  in  his  own  opinion.  But  you 
don't  listen  ?" 

"  Yes — oh,  yes — I  listen." 
"  Like  the  man  in  the  song — *  My  body's  in 
Segovia,  my  heart  is  in  Madrid.'  Oh,  Bab,  Bab, 
you're  made  of  the  same  stuff  as  other  people, 
in  spite  of  the  airs  you  give  yourself  when 
you're  dignified.  Mercy  on  us  !  don't  cry.  What 
good  can  crying  do  to  you,  or  any  body  ?" 

"  I — I  feel  as  if  he  wouldn't  come  now  at  aU  !" 
sobbed  I,  fairly  breaking  down,  and  hiding  my 
face  in  the  pillows.  "  I  was  so  full  of  hope  all 
these  ten  days ;  and  now  the  hope  is  all  gone — 
all  gone  !" 

"  Because  he  is  twelve  hours  after  the  time 
you  had  fixed  upon,  out  of  your  own  wise  head ! 
Bab,  don't  be  a  fool.  Suppose  he  is  a  week 
after  the  time — what  then  ?  He's  sure  to  come 
at  last." 

"  A  week — what  shall  I  do  for  a  whole  week, 
not  knowing  where  he  is,  or  whether  he's  had 
the  letter  ?  He — he  may  be  ill — or  gone  all  the 
way  back  to  England — who  can  tell  ?" 

My  aunt  rose  up,  very  deliberately,  and  put 
on  her  gloves. 

*'  If  you  ask  me,  Bab,  what  you,  are  to  do  for 
a  whole  week,"  said  she,  "  I'd  advise  you  to  do 
what  he  has  done  for  a  whole  year.  Bear  it." 
*'  You're — you're  very  cruel !" 
"  Perhaps  I  am.  It  was  your  turn  last,  and 
it's  mine  now.  However,  to  show  you  that  I'm 
not  a  miracle  of  wickedness,  I'll  tell  you  what 
I'm  now  going  home  to  do  —  to  write  three 
letters  ;  one  to  Hugh  Farquhar,  addressed  to  his 
own  house  at  Broomhill ;  one  to  his  housekeeper, 
desiring  her  to  forward  that  letter  to  him, 
wherever  he  may  be ;  and  the  third  to  the  post- 
master at  Naples,  requesting  that  any  thing 
which  may  have  arrived  for  me  there  shall  be  at 
once  sent  on  to  Rome.  Now,  what  d'ye  say  to 
that  ?" 

"  My  dearest,  kindest  aunt " 

"  Oh,  I'm  kind  now,  am  I  ?  I  was  cruel  two 
minutes  ago.  There,  cheer  up,  Bab ;  and  make 
haste  to  dress  and  have  your  breakfast,  and  be 
all  right  by  two  o'clock,  when  I'll  bring  a  car- 
riage round,  and  take  you  and  that  infant  monster 
for  a  drive.     Good  by." 

I  did  cheer  up,  by  a  great  effort,  for  that  and 
several  succeeding  days ;  but  my  heart  was  heavi- 
est when  I  smiled  most ;  and  my  nights  were 
spent  in  tears.  Thus  the  prescribed  week  went 
by,  and  then  another  week  ;  and  still  he  neither  I 


came  nor  wrote.  There  had  been  time,  and  more 
than  time,  for  the  letter  to  be  forwarded  from 
Chambery  to  Broomhill,  and  from  Broomhill 
back  to  Chambery.  At  length  the  suspense  be- 
came intolerable,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
bear  it  no  longer.  I  went  to  Mrs.  Sandyshaft, 
and  announced  my  determination  to  start  for 
Chambery  the  following  day. 

"  The  stupidest  thing  you  could  do,  Bab," 
said  she.  "  That's  precisely  the  way  to  miss 
him.  Where  two  people  are  looking  for  each 
other,  one  should  always  stop  still." 

"How  can  I  tell  that  he  is  not  that  one ? 
How  can  I  tell  that  he  is  not  lying  on  a  bed  of 
sickness  ?" 

"If  he  were,  he  would  have  had  his  letter; 
and  either  have  written  himself,  or  caused  some- 
body to  write." 

"  Well — these  are  but  conjectures ;  and  I 
mean  to  go,  I  sliall  at  least  have  the  satisfac- 
tion of  hearing  whatever  there  is  to  hear ;  and 
at  all  events  I  shall  not  be  breaking  my  heart  in 
idleness  here  in  Rome." 

"  Your  mind's  made  up  ?" 

"  Firmly.  I  am  now  going  to  secure  my  place 
to  Civita  Vecchia." 

"  No  need.  If  you  must  go,  I'll  go  with  you 
— under  protest — and  we'll  take  post-horses. 
What  about  the  monster?" 

"  Baby  and  Goody  must  go,  of  course." 

"A  pretty  piece  of  folly,  to  be  sure ;  and  the 
day  after  to-morrow,  the  first  of  January  !  Bab, 
Bab,  you're  a  greater  idiot  than  I  took  you  to  be 
— the  greatest  idiot  I  ever  knew,  except  myself." 


CHAPTER  LXIII. 


"  I  THANK  you,  valiant  Cassio. 
What  tidings  can  you  tell  me  of  my  lord  ?" — Othello. 

From  Rome  to  Civita  Yecchia  with  post- 
horses  ;  from  Civita  Vecchia  to  Marseilles  by 
steamer,  with  a  bitter  wind  blowing  from  the 
north-east,  and  brief  but  sudden  storms  of  snow 
and  rain  sweeping  over  the  sea ;  from  Marseilles 
to  Lyons  by  railway  ;  and  from  Lyons  by  post- 
chaise  to  Chambery.  A  dreary  journey  of  many 
days'  duration,  intensely  cold  and  comfortless, 
and  made  doubly  difficult  by  the  helplessness  of 
my  companions.  The  last  day  was  the  worst  of 
all.  We  were  fifteen  hours  on  the  road ;  six  of 
which  were  spent  in  snow  and  darkness,  strug- 
gling slowly  up  among  mountain  roads  rendered 
almost  impassable  by  several  days  of  bad  wea- 
ther. Worn  out  with  fatigue  and  cold,  we 
reached  Chambery  an  hour  after  midnight,  and 
were  driven  to  the  Hotel  du  Petit  Paris.  Here 
my  first  inquiry  was  for  Hugh.  The  sleepy 
waiter  knew  nothing  of  the  name.  I  described 
him;  but  he  v;as  confident  that  no  such  gentle- 
man had  been  there.  I  asked  what  other  hotels 
there  were  in  the  town.  He  replied  that  there 
were  several ;  but  none  so  good  as  the  Petit 
Paris,  There  was  La  Poste ;  and  there  was 
L'Aigle  Noir.  Madame  might  inquire  at  both 
to-morrow  ;  but  it  was  unlikely  that  any  English 
ti-aveler  would  prefer  either  to  the  Hotel  du 
Petit  Paris.  As  for  the  other  inns,  they  were 
aubercfes,  and  out  of  the  question.  With  this  I 
was  obliged  to  be  content  till  morning. 


178 


BARBARA'S   HISTORY. 


I  was  so  weary  that  I  slept  heavily,  and  never 
woke  till  between  nine  and  ten  o'clock  the  fol- 
lowing day.  The  sunlight  met  my  eye  like  a 
reproach.  It  was  a  glorious  morning,  cold  but 
brilliant,  with  something  hopeful  and  reassuring 
in  the  very  air.  I  rose,  confident  of  success, 
and  went  to  the  post-office  before  breakfast.  A 
young  man  lounging  at  the  door,  with  a  cigar  in 
his  mouth,  followed  me  into  the  office,  and  took 
his  place  at  the  bureau.  I  asked  if  he  could 
give  me  the  address  of  an  English  gentleman, 
Farquhar  by  name,  who  I  had  reason  to  believe 
was  staying,  or  had  been  staying,  in  Chambery. 
The  clerk  shook  his  head.  •  He  knew  of  no 
such  person. 

"  There  are,  perhaps,  some  letters  awaiting 
Mr.  Farquhar's  arrival?" 
"  No,  Madame.     None." 
"  Nay,  one  I  think  there  must  be ;  for  I  know 
that  it  was  dispatched  nearly  a  month  since. 
Will  Monsieur  oblige  me  by  looking  ?" 

Monsieur  retired,  reluctantly,  to  a  distant 
corner  of  the  bureau  ;  took  a  packet  of  letters 
from  a  pigeon-hole  in  a  kind  of  little  cupboard 
between  the  windows,  shuffled  them  as  if  they 
were  cards,  tossed  them  back  into  the  pigeon- 
hole, and  returned  with  the  same  shake  of  the 
head.  There  were  no  letters  for  Madame's 
friend.     Absolutely  none. 

I  turned  away,  disappointed,  but  incredulous. 
At  the  threshold,  I  paused.  It  might  be  a  mere 
mistake  of  pronunciation,  after  all.  I  took  out 
my  pocket-book,  penciled  the  words  "Hugh 
Farquhar,  Esquire,"  very  plainly  on  a  blank  leaf, 
and  handed  it  to  the  clerk.  His  face  lighted  up 
directly. 

"Ah,  that  name  ?" said  he.  "  Mais^  oui  ;  je 
crois  qu'il  y  a  des  lettres.  I  beg  Madame's  par- 
don a  thousand  times;  but  Madame  said  an 
English  gentleman,  and  this  name  is  surely 
Polish  or  Russian  ?" 

"  No,  no,  English,"  I  replied  impatiently,  my 
eyes  fixed  on  the  pigeon-hole. 

He  returned  to  it ;  took  out  the  letters  ;  sort- 
ed them,  oh,  how  slowly !  laid  one  aside;  sorted 
them  again,  to  make  sure  that  he  had  omitted 
none  ;  replaced  the  packet ;  paused  to  dust  the 
letter  before  bringing  it  to  the  counter;  and 
then,  instead  of  placing  it  in  my  eager  hand,  said  : 
"  Madame  has  brought  Monsieur  Farquhar's 
passport  ?" 

"  No— how  can  I  bring  it  when  I  do  not  even 
know  that  he  is  here  ?" 

"  Then  I  can  not  surrender  the  letter." 
"  But,  Monsieur — I  am  his  wife." 
"The  postal  law  does  not  permit  letters  to 
be  delivered  unless  on  exhibition  of  the  passport 
of  the  individual  to  whom  they  are  addressed." 
"  Then,  Monsieur  will,  at  least,  permit  me  to 
see  the  letter  ?" 

He  would  not  trust  it  across  the  counter ;  but 
held  it  jealously,  in  such  a  manner  that  I  could 
read  the  address.  It  was  directed  in  Mrs. 
Sandyshaft's  handwriting  to  Hugh  Farquhar, 
Esq.,  Broomhill,  and  re-directed  to  Chambery 
by  Mrs.  Fairhead.  The  back  was  almost  covered 
with  English,  French,  and  Italian  postmarks  of 
various  dates.  It  was  evidently  the  second 
letter,  written  on  the  tenth  day  after  the  first. 
Where,  then,  was  the  first  ? 

"  Are  you  sure,  Monsieur,  that  there  is  no 
other  ?" 


"  Madame,  fen  suis  Men  sur." 
"  And  there  have  been  no  others  ?" 
He  hesitated. 

"  I  can  not  say,  Madame.  If  so,  they  have 
been  delivered." 

I  felt  myself  flush  scarlet  with  impatience. 
"  But,  good  heavens  !  monsieur,  this  is  a  matter 
of  deep  importance.      Can  you  not  remember 
what  letters  you  have  given  out,  or  to  whom  you 
gave  them  ?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  replied,  with 
a  half-impertinent  smile — 

"  Madame  asks  impossibilities.  I  do  not  say 
that  there  may  not  have  been  other  letters.  I 
believe  there  were ;  but  I  can  not  undertake  to 
remember  them.  Perhaps  my  colleague  may 
recollect  having  delivered  them.  Madame  had 
better  inquire  of  him." 

"  Where  is  monsieur's  colleague  to  be  found  ?" 
I  asked,  haughtily. 

"  He  is  at  present  gone  out  to  breakfast — ah, 
le  voild .'" 

At  this  moment  another  young  man  entered 
the  office,  short,  brisk,  black-eyed ;  a  thorough 
man  of  business.  They  exchanged  a  few  words 
in  an  undertone.  Then  the  new  comer  came 
forward,  and  took  the  other's  place  at  the  little 
counter. 

"  Madame  demands  if  there  have  been  other 
letters  delivered  from  this  office  to  Monsieur — 

Monsieur " 

"  Hugh  Farquhar." 

"  Precisely,  ^h  Men,  madame,  there  have 
been  others.  I  can  not  tell  how  many.  Three 
or  four — perhaps  six.  They  have  all  been  de- 
livered ;  except  the  last,  which  has  been  shown 
to  madame,  and  is  yet  unclaimed." 
"  Delivered  to  himself  ?" 
"  To  himself  some ;  and  some  to  his  messenger, 
on  exhibition  of  monsieur's  passport." 

"  How  long  since.  Monsieur  ?" 
.    "  Three  weeks,  I  should  think — or  a  month." 
"  Then  he  has  left  Chambery  ?" 
"  It  would  seem  so,  madame ;  but  if  you  will 
take  the  trouble  to  inquire  at  the  Hotel  de  la 

Poste " 

"  At  the  Hotel  de  la  Poste  !  Was  he  staying 
there  ?" 

"I  conclude  so,  madame,  since  the  gar9on 
from  La  Poste  came  once  or  twice  for  letters." 
"  It  would  be  in  vain,  I  suppose,  to  ask  if 
monsieur  can  remember  whether  a  letter  directed 
in  the  same  handwriting  as  the  one  now  lying 
here,  Avas  delivered  to  Monsieur  Farquhar  on  or  ' 
about  the  twelfth  of  December  ?" 

The  clerk  took  up  Mrs.  Sandyshaft's  letter, 
carefully  scrutinized  the  superscription,  and 
said — 

"So  many  letters  pass  through  our  hands, 
madame,  that  I  should  be  unwilling  to  hazard  a 
decided  opinion ;  but  I  think  I  have  observed  this 
writing  before,  and  on  a  letter  addressed  to  the 
same  party.     If  so,  it  was  somewhere  about  the 

time  which  madame  specifies,  and " 

"  Was  it  delivered  to  himself,  monsieur  ?" 
"  I  was  just  about  to  say,  madame,  that,  in 
that  case,  I  rather  incline  to  the  belief  that  I  de- 
livered that  letter  to  a  lady." 
"  To  a  lady  ?" 

"  On  exhibition  of  monsieur's  passport." 
I  leaned  upon  the  counter  for  a  moment,  quite 
faint  and  speechless  ;  then,  pulling  my  vail  down 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


179 


upon  my  face,  said,  quickly  and  tremulously, — 
"  Thanks,  monsieur," — and  hurried  out  of  the 
oflSce. 

A  little  way  up  the  road  there  stood  a  clump 
of  trees,  a  fountain,  and  a  stone  bench.  I  made 
my  way  to  the  bench  and  sat  down,  feeling  very 
giddy.  My  mind  was  all  confused.  I  felt  as  if 
some  great  misfortune  had  befallen  me  ;  though 
I  scarcely  comprehended  the  nature  of  it.  Pres- 
ently some  young  girls  came  up,  chattering  and 
laughing,  to  fill  their  pitchers  from  the  fountain. 
I  saw  them  look  at  me  and  whisper  together.  I 
shuddered,  rose,  and  turned  away.  Walking  on, 
as  it  were,  instinctively,  I  crossed  an  open  space 
surrounded  by  public  buildings,  and  entering  a 
street  which  opened  off  by  one  of  the  angles, 
found  myself  immediately  opposite  a  large  white 
house,  across  the  front  of  which  was  pajjftted  the 
words,  "  H6tel  de  la  Poste,"  A  respectable- 
looking  man  was  standing  at  the  door,  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets.  I  paused,  advanced  a  step, 
and  asked  if  I  could  speak  to  the  landlord.  To 
which  he  replied,  with  a  bow — 

"  Madame^  je  suis  le  maitre  cfhotel.  Be  pleased 
to  walk  in." 

"  No,  thank  you,  monsieur,  I — I  only  wish  to 
make  an  inquiry." 

"At  your  service,  madame." 
"  I  am  anxious  to  know,  monsieur,  whether 
an  English  gentleman  named  Farquhar  has  been 
staying  lately  at  your  hotel  ?" 

"  Not  very  lately,  madame.  He  has  been  gone 
nearly  a  month." 

"  May  I  ask  how  long  he  remained  here  ?" 
"  About'a  fortnight,  madame." 
"  Can  you  tell  me  if  he  is  gone  back  to  Eng- 
land ?" 

"  If  madame  will  take  the  trouble  to  accept  a 
seat  in  the  bureau,  I  will  refer  to  the  visitor's 
book,  and  see  if  monsieur  left  any  address." 

I  stepped  into  the  landlord's  little  parlor  and, 
sat  down,  while  he  turned  over  the  pages  of  a 
large  book  that  lay  upon  a  side-table.  Presently 
his  forefinger,  which  had  been  rapidly  running 
down  column  after  column,  stopped  at  a  certain 
entry,  like  a  pointer. 

"  No  address  left,  madame,"  said  he.  *'  But 
monsieur,  I  think,  took  post-horses  from  here. 
I  will  refer  to  my  books,  and  see  in  what  direc- 
tion he  traveled." 

And  the  obUging  maitre  d'hotel  took  down  a 
ledger  from  his  bookshelves,  and  resumed  the 
same  process  of  search.  Again  the  swift  fore- 
finger came  to  a  sudden  halt. 

"  Monsieur  F. — numeros^  quatre,  trois^  cinq,  ef 
six,'^  said  he,  running  rapidly  over  the  items  of 
the  various  entries.  "  Appartments,  so  much ; 
dinners,  breakfast,  wine,  etc. — post-horses  to  Gre- 
noble— Monsieur  went  from  here  to  Grenoble." 

'.'  To  Grenoble  ?"  I  repeated.     "  Thanks,  mon- 
sieur— and  left  no  address  ?" 
"  None,  madame." 

"  Monsieur  Farquhar  traveled — alone  ?" 
"Monsieur  arrived  alone,  Madame  —  c'esi  d 
dire,  accompanied  by  his  colored  servant ;  and 
was  joined  here  by  Mademoiselle,  his  sister." 
"  By — by  his — sister  ?" 
*'  Yes,  Madame.      Mademoiselle  arrived  the 
day  before   they   started   for  Grenoble.     Man 
Bieu,  Madame  !     Vous — vous  trouvez  malade  /" ' 
"  Thank  you—"  I  said,  pressing  my  hand  to 
my  forehead.     "I — I  feel  somewhat  faint.     A 


long  journey — and — and  the  fatigue  of  walking 
before  breakfast " 

"  Allow  me  to  call  for  a  glass  of  wine " 

"  No,  thank  you  —  a  little  water.  You  are 
very  good." 

The  landlord  ran  himself  to  a  filter  standing  in 
the  hall,  and  brought  me  a  tumblerful  of  fresh 
water.  Refreshed  and  steadied  by  the  cool 
draught,  I  rose,  and  bade  him  good  morning.  He 
attended  me  to  the  door,  and,  seeing  me  hesi- 
tate, asked  in  what  direction  I  wished  to  go. 

"  To  the  Hotel  du  Petit  Paris." 

"  Straight  on,  madame,  till  you  come  to  the 
end  of  the  street,  and  then  turn  to  the  left.  The 
Petit  Paris  will  be  straight  before  you.  You  can 
not  miss  your  way." 

"  I  am  much  obliged,  Monsieur ;  good  morn- 
ing." 

"  Madame,  I  have  the  honor  to  wish  you  good 
morning." 


"  Bab,  my  dear,"  said  my  aunt,  "  we  can  do  no 
more  than  we  have  done.  We  must  just  sit  down 
now,  and  be  patient." 

"  Patient !"  I  echoed,  with  a  bitter  sigh. 
"  Well,  what's  to  be  gained  by  impatience  ? 
Here's  Grenoble ;  yonder's  the  railway  station  ; 
and  to-day  is  the  eighth  of  January.  Six-and- 
twenty  days  ago,  a  traveler  leaves  this  hotel, 
bag  and  baggage  ;  goes  to  that  railway  station  ; 
takes  tickets  for  somewhere  or  another ;  and  dis- 
appears. Who's  to  tell  in  what  direction  he  went 
— east,  west,  north,  or  south  ?  The  cleverest,  ' 
detective  in  Bow  Street  couldn't  track  a  man  on 
such  a  clue  as  that.  I  defy  him.  Much  less 
three  women  and  a  baby." 

"  Yet  it  is  so  hard  to  give  up,  now  that  we 

are  on  his  very  footsteps " 

^  "Fiddlesticks,  Bab.  Footsteps  don't  help  one 
six-and-twenty  days  after  date.  One  might  go 
to  New-York  and  back  in  the  time." 

My  aunt  was  sitting  in  an  easy  chair  by  the 
fire;  I  was  standing  by  the  window,  looking 
over  toward  the  Alps  and  the  sunset.  We  had 
followed  on  as  far  as  Grenoble,  and  here  aU 
traces  of  Hugh  and  his  companions  disappeared. 
They  had  left  by  railway  the  morning  after  their 
arrival,  and  were  gone  no  one  knew  whither. 
Reluctant  as  I  was  to  admit  it,  I  knew  that  my 
aunt  was  right,  and  further  search  useless. 

"  Well  ?"  said  she,  presently.  "  What's  to 
be  done  ?" 

"  What  you  please,"  I  replied  listlessly. 

"  Humph  !  if  I  did  what  I  pleased,  I  should  go 
back  to  Suffolk  at  once,  and  take  you  with  me. 
Will  you  go  ?" 

"  To  Suffolk  ?  Oh,  no — never,  never  again, 
unless " 

"  Unless  what,  pray  ?" 

"  Unless  with  him." 

"That's  a  ridiculous  condition,  Bab." 

"Let  him  make  every  thing  clear  tome — let 
him let  him  explain  how  it  is  that  this  wo- 
man is  again  with  him " 

"  That's  easily  explained.  She  has  followed 
him,  I've  no  doubt,  like  a  dog." 

"Perhaps;  but  that  is  not  all.  That's  not 
enough." 

"  Well,  Bab — your  fittest  home,  for  the  pres- 
ent, is  my  home.  Decline  it,  if  you  please ;  but 
that's  where  you  ought  to  be.  In  the  mean  time, 


180 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


we  can't  stay  in  this  out-of-the-world  place — 
can  we?" 

"  Certainly  not.  We  must  go  back  to  Rome. 
Perhaps  he  is  already  there,  awaiting  our  re- 
turn." 

"  I'll  be  bound,  if  so,  that  he  won't  be  such  a 
fool  as  to  run  off  to  Chambery  after  2<s,"  said 
my  aunt.  "  But  I  don't  believe  we  shall  find 
him  there." 

"  Nor  I,"  I  replied,  hopelessly. 

My  aunt  stood  up,  and  came  over  to  the  win- 
dow. 

*'  Shall  we  trudge  off  again  to-morrow  then?" 
said  she,  laying  her  hand  kindly  on  my  shoulder. 
*'  Do  you  feel  strong  enough — eh  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes — quite  strong  enough." 

"  And  you'd  rather  go  to  Rome  ?" 

"  Of  course.     It  is  our  only  chance." 

"  Very  well — Rome  it  shall  be.  And  as  for 
that  letter — well,  well,  I've  my  own  suspicions  ; 
but  never  mind.  Time  will  show.  We  must 
play  the  game  of  patience,  now  ;  but  we  hold 
all  the  best  cards  in  our  own  hands,  my  dear, 
and  win  we  must — some  day.    Poor  Bab  !" 

We  stood  there  for  several  minutes  quite 
silently,  and  watched  the  round  red  sun  sink 
slowly  down  behind  the  farthest  peaks.  The 
broad  plain  lay  below,  all  dusk  and  mysterious. 
The  lowest  mountains  became  violet  in  shade, 
and  the  loftiest  crimson  in  light ;  and  the  great 
glaciers  flashed  like  fire  on  the  remotest  horizon. 
I  thought  of  the  time  when  Hugh  and  I  travel- 
ed together  in  the  mighty  Oberland,  and  my 
eves  grew  dim,  and  my  heart  heavy,  with  the 
remembrance. 

"  How  grand  it  is,"  I  said  sadly. 

"  Yes,  it's  grand,  of  course  it's  grand,"  re- 
plied Mrs.  Sandyshaft.  "  But  the  truth  is,  my 
dear,  I've  no  taste  for  the  sublime.  Mountains 
are  all  very  well  in  their  way ;  but  give  me  Suf- 
folk !" 

The  next  morning,  we  took  the  railway  back 
again  to  Marseilles,  and  embarked  on  board  the 
French  boat  for  Civita  Vecchia. 


CHAPTER  LXIV. 


THE  OLD,  OLD  STORY. 


"  He  is  but  a  landscape  painter, 
And  a  village  maiden  she." 

Tennyson. 

January,  February,  March  went  by;  April 
came  ;  and  still  there  was  no  sign  or  word  from 
Hugh.  Hilda  went  off  to  Naples  with  her  obe- 
dient husband,  for  the  fashionable  season.  Ida 
completed  her  large  picture,  and  dispatched  it 
to  Zollenstrasse  for  the  approaching  competi- 
tion. Paolo,  after  lingering  in  Rome  week  after 
week,  lost  faith  in  my  ability  to  help  him,  and 
went  back  to  his  wife  and  home  in  Capri.  In 
the  mean  time  my  aunt  came  to  live  with  u^  in 
the  Yicolo  d'Aliberti,  and  we  engaged  all  the 
upper  portion  of  the  house,  and  a  couple  of  good 
servants  for  her  accommodation.  In  the  mean 
time,  also,  my  darling  throve  like  a  young  plant 
in  the  sunshine,  drinking  in  strength  and  beauty 
from  every  fragrant  breath  that  stirred  the  open- 
ing blossoms  of  the  spring.  He  knew  me  now 
— held  out  his  little  arms  when  he  saw  me  from 
afar  off — smiled  when  I  smiled ;  and  testified 
his  love  in  a  thousand  fond  and  helpless  ways, 
scarcely  intelligible  to  any  eyes  but  mine. 


"  Methought  his  looks  began  to  talk  with  me  ; 
And  no  articulate  sounds,  but  something  sweet 
His  lips  would  frame." 

Heaven  knows  I  needed  all  the  unconscious 
comfort  his  baby  heart  could  give  !  I  was  very 
wretched. 

It  was  the  mystery  that  made  my  life  so 
miserable — the  painful,  oppressive,  entangling 
mystery,  that  haunted  me  perpetually,  sleeping 
or  waking,  till  my  brain  ached,  and  my  very 
soul  was  weary. 

The  letter  had  been  delivered— that  was  cer- 
tain. Immediately  after  its  delivery,  Hugh  had 
left  Chambery  for  Grenoble — that  also  was  cer- 
tain. From  Grenoble  he  had  taken  his  de- 
parture, after  one  night's  delay,  by  railway  ;  and 
from  this  point  all  trace  of  him  disappeared. 
He  had  left  no  address.*  He  had  neither  written 
to  Mrs.  Sandyshaft,  nor  to  any  of  his  own  peo- 
ple at  Broomhill.  He  had  totally,  unaccountably, 
mysteriously  vanished  ;  and  with  him  had  also 
vanished  Tippo  and  Maddalena.  Sometimes  I 
thought  he  must  have  been  murdered  by  banditti, 
and  buried  where  he  fell.  Sometimes  I  asked 
myself  if  Maddalena  could  have  poisoned  him 
in  some  fierce  passion  of  jealousy  and  despair  ? 
She  was  Italian,  and  her  black  eyes  had  in  them 
"  something  dangerous."  Again,  I  questioned 
if  he  had  ever  received  Mrs.  Sandyshaft's  letter. 
The  clerk  believed  that  he  had  delivered  it  to  a 
lady.  That  lady  must  have  been  Maddalena ; 
and  what  if  she  had  destroyed  it  ?  Supposing 
this,  would  he  not  have  marveled  at  my  aunt's 
long  silence,  and  have  written  to  her  at  the 
Neapolitan  oflBce  ? 

These  questions  tormented  me  ;  pursued  me  ; 
poisoned  the  very  air  and  sunshine  around  me ; 
and  made  my  life  one  long,  sickening,  heart- 
breaking suspense.  In  vain  those  around  me 
preached  the  wisdom  and  necessity  of  patience. 
I  could  endure,  and  I  could  suffer ;  but  there 
was  no  patience  for  such  a  burthen  of  anxiety  as 
mine. 

Thus  the  slow  weeks  dragged  past,  and  hope 
gradually  died  away,  and  I  made  up  my  mind 
that  I  should  never  see  him  more. 

And  now  my  turn  had  come  to  grow  pale  and 
absent — to  pore  upon  the  map,  and  say  "  If  I  had 
taken  this  direction,  I  should  have  met  him  ;" 
or  "  If  I  had  gone  at  once,  I  should  have  found 
him" — to  rack  my  brain  with  suppositions,  and 
my  heart  with  bitter  reproaches.  It  was  retri- 
bution, terrible,  literal,  torturing.  Retribution 
dealt  out  even-handed ;  measure  for  measure ; 
cup  for  cup,  to  the  last  drop  of  the  draught.  My 
aunt  never  reproached  me  now  ;  but  my  self-con- 
demnation was  enough.  In  every  pang  that  I  suf- 
fered, I  remembered  those  which  my  flight  had 
inflicted  on  him.  In  every  dark  conjecture  that 
sent  a  shudder  through  my  whole  being,  I  recog- 
nized his  anguish.  It  was  a  woeful  time ;  and 
any  fault  that  had  been  mine  in  the  past  was  ex- 
piated to  the  utmost. 

One  afternoon,  very  early  in  April,  Ida  came 
to  me  in  my  little  painting-room,  and  sat  down 
on  a  stool  at  my  feet.  I  was  alone,  and  had  been 
brooding  over  my  grief  for  hours  in  silence.  She 
took  my  hand,  and  laid  her  cheek  upon  it,  ten- 
derly. 

"  My  poor  Barbara,"  said  she,  *'  you  have  been 
solitary.     Where  is  Mrs.  Sandyshaft  ?" 

"  Out,  dear.     She  dines  to-day  at  her  banker's, 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


181 


after  accompanying  them  in  a  drive  to  Antemnae 
and  Fidenae." 

*'Had  I  known  that,  I  would  have  staid  at 
home.     It  is  not  good  for  you  to  be  alone." 

"  Nay,  dear,  it  makes  little  difference  "  I  re- 
plied, sadly. 
"  You  have  not  been  painting?" 
"No." 

"Nor  readin«?" 
"No." 

"  Nor  walking  ?" 

"  I  walked  on  the  Pincio  this  morning  before 
breakfast,  with  Goody  and  the  child." 

*'  You  must  not  always  call  him  '  the  child,' 
and  '  the  baby,'  "  said  Ida  coaxingly.      "  You 
must  accustom  yourself,  dear,  to  give  him  his 
own  pretty  name.     I  should  love  to  call  him 
Hugh,  if  I  were  you — little  Hugh — Ugolino." 
"  No,  no— not  yet.     I  can  not."        ^ 
"  Well  then,  may  I  ?" 
*'  No,  darling — I  can  not  bear  it  yet.     By  and 

by,  perhaps — when  I  am  stronger " 

"  Enough — I  will  not  tease  you.  And  now — 
and  now,  do  you  not  wonder  where  I  have  been 
all  day  ?" 

"  Ay,  dear,"  was  my  listless  answer.  "  Where?" 
"  Well,  I  went  first  to  Plowden's  to  inquire  if 
there  were  yet  any  news  from  ZoUenstrasse  re- 
specting the  safe  arfival  of  my  picture.     I  told 
you  I  was  going  there,  when  I  went  out." 
"  I  had  forgotten  it." 

"  And  then  I  thought  I  would  step  in  at  Piale's, 
to  see  if  he  had  yet  procured  that  Hand-book  of 
Rome  for  Mrs.  Sandyshaft,  which  she  ordered 
several  days  ago." 

"  That  was  thoughtful  and  kind,  my  Ida." 
"And — and  at  Piale's,  I  met  the  gentleman, 
dear,  whom  I  told  you  I  encountered  once  or 
twice  before — do  you  remember?" 

"  To  be  sure.  The  English  artist  who  lodged 
in  your  father's  house  in  Munich  ;  and  who  was 
so  good  to  you  when  you  were  a  child." 

"  To  whom  I  owe  my  first  beginnings  of  art, 
and  who  procured  me  my  presentation  to  the 
ZoUenstrasse  College,"  said  Ida  warmly. 

"He  has  been,  indeed,  a  good  friend,"  I  re- 
plied, trying  to  fix  my  wandering  attention. 
"  So  you  met  him  again  to-day  at  Piale's  ?" 

"  Yes — he  was  in  the  reading-room  ;  but — ^he 
rose  up  when  he  saw  me,  and  shook  hands  so 
kindly ;  and — and  asked  me  if  I  would  like  to 
go  to  the  Campana  Museum,  for  which  he  had  a 
permission  of  entry.  Now,  you  know,  dear, 
the  Campana  collection  is  one  of  the  great  dif- 
ficulties of  Rome.     It  is  almost  impossible  to 

procure  admission,  and " 

"  And  you  went,  I  suppose  ?" 
"  I  was  very  glad  to  avail  myself  of  the  op- 
portunity— and  I  thought  there  could  be  no  ob- 
jection to  the  escort  of  a — a  gentleman  whom  I 

had  known  since  I  was  a  little  girl '' 

"  Surely  not,  my  dear  Ida.      I  am  glad  you 

have  seen  the  collection.     It  is  very  beautiful." 

"  Indeed  it  is,"  replied  Ida.     "  He  asked  me 

with  whom  I  was  living.     I  find  he  knows  you, 

Barbara." 

"Knows  me?"  I  repeated.  "How  should 
that  be  ?" 

"  He  has  met  you,  dear — at  a  pic-nic." 
"  Ah — that  is  possible.     I  have  forgotten  his 
name  ?" 

"  Penwame— Alfred  Penwame.  Is  it  not  a 
grand  name?" 


"  Yes — it  is  a  good  name.  I  remember  him 
now.     He  is  very  satirical." 

"  He  is  very  witty,"  said  Ida,  coloring  up,  and 
speaking  somewhat  emphatically. 

"  Nay,  dear  child — I  mean  no  unkindness  of 
your  friend.  So  he  remembers  to  have  seen  me 
at  Tivoli  ?" 

"  Yes ;  and  he  asked  me  if  you  were  one  of 
the  Carylons  of  Pen — Pen — something,  in  Corn- 
wall ;  and  then  he  said  that  Carlyon  was  a  Cor- 
nish name,  and  that  he  himself  was  a  Cornish  man. 
I  was  so  confused,  Barbara;  and  yet  I  could 
scarcely  keep  from  laughing." 

"Poor  Ida!  it  was  very  annoying  for  you." 

"  Oh,  it  was  nothing.     Well,  dear — we  went 

all  through  the  Campana  gallery  ;  and  then,  on 

coming  out,  Mr.  Penwame  proposed  that  we 

should  take  a  turn  on  the  Pincio.    And — and 

then " 

She  paused ;  and  I  was  startled  to  find  how 
her  hand  trembled  in  mine. 

"Why,  Ida,"  I  exclaimed,  "  you  are  nervous, 
child !  Your  cheek  is  flushed — you  tremble — 
what  is  it?" 

"  I — I  scarcely  know  whether  to  laugh  or  cry," 
faltered  she  ;  "  but — but  it  is  all  so  strange — I 

seem  as  if  I  could  not  believe  it " 

"  Could  not  beUeve  what,  my  darling?" 
"  What  he  told  me  in — in  the  gardens." 
A  sudden  light  flashed  upon  me.     I  stooped 
over  her  where  she  sat  at  my  feet,  and  taking 
her  pretty  head  between  my  hands,  turned  her 
face  toward  me. 

"  What  did  he  tell  you,  my  little  Ida  ?"  I  said, 
smiling.  "  That  he  had  never  forgotten  you, 
all  these  years — and  that  Ida  Penwarne  would 
sound  far  prettier  for  a  lady's  name  than  Ida 
Saxe  ?" 

She  flung  her  arms  round  my  neck,  and  buried 
her  blushing  face  in  my  bosom. 

"  He  said  that — that  he  had  always  thought 
.  of  me  with  kindness,"  whispered  she,  "  and  that 
— since  the  first  day  he  met  me  here  in  Rome, 
he — he  loved  me !" 

"  And  you,  Liehe — what  did  you  reply  ?" 

"  I  hardly  remember 1 — I  think  I  said  I  was 

very  glad  not  to  have  been — ^forgotten — by  him." 

"But,  my  dear  child,  is  not  all  this  strangely 

precipitate  ?     You  have  not  seen  Mr.  Penwarne 

more  than  twice  before  to-day,  and  how  can  yo\i 

tell  whether " 

"  I  have  seen  him  a  great  many  times,"  said 
Ida,  guiltily.     "  I — I  couldn't  help  it.     I  suppose 

that,  knowing  where  I  lived " 

"He  contrived  to  meet  you,  by  accident — 
eh?" 

"  Perhaps ;  and  then " 

"And  then,  what?" 

"  He  lived  in  our  house  for  more  than  two 
years.     It  is  not  as  if  we  were  strangers." 
"  That  is  true." 

"And  —  and  besides,  Barbara,  I  —  I  think  I 
loved  him  a  little,  before  I  came  to  ZoUenstrasse 
at  all !" 

Pretty,  artless  Ida !  Her  long-hidden  secret 
was  told  at  last,  and  all  the  rest  of  her  life's  in- 
nocent romance  was  soon  poured  out.  It  was 
the  old,  old  story,  of  which  the  world  is  never 
weary — the  old  story  of  how  admiration  and 
gratitude  became  love  in  a  simple  maiden's  heart, 
dwelling  there,  an  unwritten  poem,  year  after 
year ;  unfostered  by  a  single  hope  ;  untainted  by 
a  single  regret ;  pure  as  her  own  soul,  and  sacred 


182 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


as  her  religion.  She  had  so  much  to  tell,  and 
yet  it  was  so  little  when  told !  How  he  first 
came  to  live  at  her  father's  cottage  by  the  banks 
of  the  Isar;  how  he  took  kindly  notice  of  her 
from  the  first ;  how  she  loved  to  linger  near 
when  he  was  painting,  and  with  what  eager  won- 
der she  watched  the  daily  progress  of  his  work  ; 
how  he  took  her,  one  day,  to  the  museum  of 
pictures ;  how,  another  day,  he  made  a  little  por- 
trait of  her  in  oils,  and  gave  it  to  her  mother ; 
how,  at  last,  he  offered  to  teach  her  something 
of  drawing ;  and  what  a  happy  time  it  was  when 
she  used  to  go  out  with  him  into  the  fields  be- 
hind the  house,  and  sketch  the  pine  rafts  that 
came  down  the  river,  the  great  elms  that  fringed 
the  opposite  bank,  and  all  the  homely  subjects 
round  about — these,  and  the  like  simple  inci- 
dents, made  the  substance  of  her  little  story ; 
yet  every  detail  interested  me,  and  I  listened  to 
it  from  first  to  last  with  a  tender  sympathy  that 
caused  me,  for  the  time,  to  forget  my  trouble  in 
her  happiness. 

Thus  we  sat  talking  till  the  early  dusk  drew 
on,  and  the  red  glow  of  the  embers  on  the 
hearth  became  the  only  light  by  which  we  saw 
each  other's  face  ;  and  then  Ida  went  up  to  her 
own  room,  and  I  was  alone  again. 

The  wind  had  risen  within  the  last  hour,  and 
came,  every  now  and  then,  in  sudden  gusts 
against  !he  window.  I  rose,  and  looked  out. 
A  few  stars  gleamed  between  the  rifts  of  ragged 
cloud  that  drifted  across  the  sky,  and  an  occasion- 
al blot  of  rain  came  with  the  wind.  I  turned 
from  the  cheerless  prospect  with  a  shudder ;  and, 
resuming  my  former  seat,  fell  back  upon  the  old 
train  of  thought,  as  if  nothing  had  occurred  to 
interrupt  it.  Presently  my  boy  waked  in  his 
little  cot,  with  that  sweet,  impatient,  inarticulate 
cry  that  was  so  eloquent  to  my  ear.  I  hastened 
to  throw  on  a  fresh  log  and  a  couple  of  pine- 
cones,  to  make  the  room  bright  for  him ;  then 
took  him  in  my  arms ;  danced  him  to  and  fro 
before  the  fire  to  the  tune  of  a  quaint,  old-fash- 
ioned Italian  lullaby  ;  kissed  him  ;  talked  to  him  ; 
and  watched  how  his  great  blue  eyes  were  turned 
toward  the  leaping  flame  in  wonder  and  delight. 
These  were  my  happy  moments — my  only  happy 
moments  now — and  even  these  were  often  over- 
cast by  sudden  clouds  of  anguish. 

All  at  once  the  door  opened,  and  Goody,  with 
a  startled  look  upon  her  face,  peeped  in. 

"  My  deary,"  said  she,  "  there's  a  lady  wait- 
ing to  see  you." 
"A  lady?" 

"  And  —  and  she  asked  for  Mrs.  Farquhar, 
my  deary,"  added  the  old  servant,  apprehen- 
sively. 

"  My  name  ?"  I  stammered,  seized  with  a 
vague  terror.     *'  Who  knows  my  name  ?" 

"  She's  quite  a  stranger,"  said  Goody,  "  and — 
she's  here !" 

I  rose  as  my  visitor  appeared  on  the  thresh- 
old. She  came  in  —  closed  the  door  —  lifted 
her  vail. 

It  was  Maddalena. 


CHAPTER  LXV. 

maddalena's  confession. 

"  Fack  to  face  in  my  chamber,  my  silent  chamber,  I  saw 
her! 
God,  and  she  and  I  only."— Mrs.  Browning. 

My  first  impulse  was  one  of  terror — unmixed, 
overmastering  terror.  I  turned  cold  from  head 
to  foot,  and  my  heart  failed  within  me.  For  a 
moment,  we  stood  there,  face  to  face,  in  the 
firelight ;  both  silent.  Maddalena  was  the  first 
to  speak. 

"  At  last  we  meet,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  dis- 
tinct tone.     "  At  last !" 

^  I  shuddered.  I  so  well  remember  that  vibra- 
ting, melancholy  voice,  with  its  slightly  foreign 
intonation. 

*'  Whose  child  is  that  ?" 
I  clasped  my  boy  closer  to  my  bosom.     My 
lips  moved,  but  uttered  no  sound. 

"  Whose  child  is  that  ?"  she  repeated. 
"Mine." 

She  took  a  step  forward ;  but  as  she  did  so,  I 
sprang  back,  laid  my  baby  in  his  cot,  and  stood 
before  it,  trembling  but  desperate,  like  some 
wild  creature  at  bay. 

"Keep  off"!"  I  cried,  vehemently.  "You 
shall  not  touch  him." 

She  looked  at  me  with -eyes  that  dilated  as 
she  spoke. 

"  Fool !"  she  said,  scornfully.  "  Do  you  think 
I  would  harm  your  child  ?" 

Then  her  face  grew  gentle  and  her  voice  soft- 
ened, as  she  added : 
"  Is  it  not  7ws,  also  ?" 

"  His  !"  I  echoed,  my  terror  rapidly  giving 
place  to  indignation.  "  Do  you  presume  to  name 
my  husband  to  my  face  ?" 

"  I  come  here  to-night  for  no  other  purpose 
than  to  speak  of  him." 

"  In  that  case,"  I  said,  controlHng  my  voice 
to  a  steady  coldness  as  I  went  on,  "  you  will  be 
so  good  as  to  remember  that  you  address  Mr. 
Farquhar's  wife." 

She  smiled,  disdainfully, 
"  His  wife  ?"  she  repeated.     "  Ay — I  am  not 
likely  to  forget  it." 

"  What  have  you  to  say  to  me  ?" 
"  Much,"  she  replied,  leaning  against  the  table, 
and  pressing  her  hand  to  her  side,  as  if  in  pam. 
"Truths  bitter  to  tell  —  so  bitter  that,  three 
weeks  ago,  I  would  have  torn  my.  tongue  out, 
sooner  than  utter  them.  Yet  I  am  here  to-night 
to  tell  them  to — youP 

She  paused  again,  as  if  for  breath,  and  I  saw 
that  she  looked  very  ill.  I  pointed,  almost  invol- 
untarily, to  a  chair  that  was  standing  by ;  but 
she  took  no  notice  of  the  gesture. 

'  Listen,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  so  resolutely 
defiant  that  it  seemed  to  mock  the  quivering  of 
her  lips  ;  "  listen,  you,  his  lady- wife,  to  a  peasant 
who  was  his  mistress.  He  never  sought  me.  It 
was  I  who  fled  to  him,  and  laid  myself  at  his 
feet.  He  never  loved  me.  The  love  was  mine  ; 
the  pity  and  indulgence  his.  He  never  married 
me.  Such  was  the  chivalry  of  his  nature,  that 
he  would  have  made  me  his  wife  if  he  could ; 
simply  because  I  was  a  woman,  and  had  given 
myself  to  him.  But  I  was  already  married ;  and 
so  that  could  not  be.  Yet,  in  the  rashness  of 
his  gcnerosit)',  he  gave  me  a  solemn  promise 
that  he  would  never  wed  another.    It  was  a  pro- 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


188 


mise  that  he  should  never  have  given.  It  was  a 
promise  that  he  had  not  strength  to  keep.  He 
has  told  me  since  how  he  suffered  and  struggled 
under  temptation ;  how  he  even  fled  from  that 
temptation  before  he  yielded.  You  know  that, 
better  than  I  can  tell  you." 

Indeed,  I  did  know  it.  I  bowed  my  head  in 
silence.  I  could  not  speak — I  could  only  listen. 
It  was  as  if  my  life  and  all  my  future  hung  upon 
her  lips  ;  while,  at  every  word  she  uttered,  some 
cloud  seemed  to  roll  away  from  the  past. 

"  I  never  knew  that  promise  was  broken," 
she  continued,  "4ill  a  few  days  before  he  brought 
— his  wife — to  Broomhill.  It  had  been  my  home 
up  to  that  time,  and  he  had  vowed  it  should  be 
mine  while  I  lived.  I  then  learned  that  I  must 
either  leave  the  shelter  of  his  roof;  or  dwell  be- 
neath it  a  voluntary  prisoner.  I  chose  the  latter, 
and,  for  his  sake,  endured ^"  ^ 

She  checked  herself,  and  flashing  a  hasty 
glance  at  me,  said  : 

"  No  matter  what  I  endured.  I  loved  him  — 
and  love  him.  A  hundred  wives- could  do  no 
more.  Not  one  in  a  hundred  thousand  would 
have  done  so  much." 

"  Hush,"  I  said,  gently.  "  These  are  compari- 
sons which  it  neither  becomes  you  to  make,  nor 
me  to  hear." 

She  waved  her  hand  impatiently. 

"  My  precautions,"  said  she,  "  were  in  vain. 
Fate  guided  you.  Step  by  step,  you  discovered 
all.  You,  however,  rejected  some  truths  ;  and 
too  literally  accepted  the  purport  of  words  which 
— which  were  not  for  your  ear.  Do  you  under- 
stand me  ?" 

"  Perfectly.  But  my  husband — Mr.  Farquhar 
— tell  me  where " 

"Patience.  I  have  a  confession  to  make 
first." 

"  A  confession  ?"  I  repeated ;  all  my  fears 
flooding  back  at  once  upon  my  heart. 

She  turned  even  paler  than  before,  and  fierce- 
ly clenched  the  hand  that  rested  on  the  table. 

"You  fled,"  said  she,  in  a  deep  low  tone; 
"  and  your  flight  sealed  my  fate.  Sooner  or 
later  you  must  return  —  I  knew  that.  I  also 
knew  that  the  day  of  your  return  would  be  the 
day  of  my  banishment.  I  had  hated  you  be- 
fore, but  from  that  hour  I  hated  you  with  ten- 
fold bitterness.  Ay,  you  may  well  shrink ! 
We  Southerns  hate  as  we  love  —  to  madness. 
There  was  a  time,  and  that  not  long  since,  when 
I  could  have  taken  your  life  without  pity." 

I  listened,  as  if  in  a  terrible  dream. 

"You  fled,"  she  went  on  to  say,  breathing 
with  difficulty,  and  speaking  in  short,  sharp  sen- 
tences, like  one  in  pain.  "You  fled,  and  I  was 
again  free.  But  my  peace  was  gone.  He  suf- 
fered ;  and  his  suffierings  were  my  sufferings — 
his  restlessness,  my  restlessness.  Life  lost  its 
last  charm  for  me.  I  loathed  even  Broomhill — 
Broomhill,  once  so  calm  and  pleasant !  Thus  a 
year  passed." 

Again  she  broke  off  abruptly.  Her  brow 
contracted,  and  the  veins  rose  like  cords  upon 
the  back  of  her  thin,  resolute  hand.  It  was  as 
if  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  utter  what  she 
had  next  to  say. 

"He  went  abroad,"  she  continued.  "He 
wrote  to  me.  It  was  his  wish  that  I  should  re- 
main no  longer  at  Broomhill.  He— he  had  re- 
solved to  provide  me  with  a  home  far  away ; 


and  he  bade  me  join  him — at  Chambery.  That 
letter  came  to  me  like  my  death-warrant.  I  had 
expected  it  ;  but  the  blow  fell  none  the  less 
heavily.  I  obeyed  without  a  murmur.  Had  he 
bidden  me  die  by  slow  poison,  I  should  have 
obeyed  as  literally.  I  went.  He  told  me  that 
I  was  to  live  henceforth  at  Nice,  where  he  had 
bought  a  villa  for  me  by  the  sea.  He  thought 
kindly  for  me,  even  in  this.  It  was  my  own 
climate,  my  own  sea,  the  land  of  my  own 
tongue.     But  it  was  banishment — banishment  1" 

"  But  when  you  left  Chambery,"  I  began, 
trembling  with  eagerness  to  know  more,  "  when 
you  left  Chambery,  in  what " 

"Patience,"  she  said  again.  "You  shall 
hear  all  in  its  course.  I  joined  him  at  Cham- 
bery. He  made  it  appear  there  that  I  was  his 
sister.  I  arrived  on  the  Sunday  afternoon.  It 
was  arranged  that  we  should  begin  our  journey 
the  following  day.  I  rose  early  the  next  morn- 
ing, and  went  out  before  breakfast ;  for  I  was 
very  restless.  He  asked  me  to  call  at  the  Post- 
office,  and  leave  directions  that  all  letters  should 
be  forwarded  to  him  at  the  Bureau  Restante, 
Nice.  He  also  gave  me  his  passport  to  show, 
in  case  any  should  have  arrived  by  that  morn- 
ing's mail.  I  made  up  my  mind,  as  I  w5nt 
along,  that  I  would  not  leave  his  address.  There 
was  always  danger  that  news  of  yourself  might 
come  at  last,  and  my  only  hope  hung  on  your 
absence.  They  were  just  opening  the  bag  when 
I  went  in,  and  at  once  handed  me  a  letter  for 
him.  I  recognized  Mrs.  Sandyshaft's  writing. 
I  had  often  seen  it  at  Broomhill.  I  had  no 
sooner  taken  that  letter  in  my  hand  than  I  felt 
a  presentiment  of  evil.  I  wandered  out  beyond 
the  town,  and  sat  down  in  a  solitary  place  to  ex- 
amine it.  The  more  I  looked  at  it,  the  more  I 
was  convinced  that  it  contained  some  fatal  intel- 
ligence. My  destiny  trembled  in  the  balance. 
It  was  in  my  own  power  to  turn  the  scale.  I — 
I  hesitated  long.  The  temptation  was  all-pow- 
erful, and  yet  I — I  struggled  against  it " 

"  You  destroyed  the  letter  !"  I  exclaimed. 

"  I  was  desperate,"  she  replied,  starting  into 
sudden  energy.  "  It  was  my  only  stake — and  I 
played  it.  Yes,  I  confess  it — I  opened  the  let- 
ter— read  it — tore  it  into  a  thousand  fragments, 
and  sent  it  floating  down  the  stream  that  hur- 
ried by.  There,  you  know  it  now  —  all  the 
black  and  bitter  truth." 

"  Alas,  poor  Hugh  !"  I  faltered,  tearfully. 

Maddalena  opened  her  dark  eyes  full  upon 
me,  half  in  wonder,  half  in  scorn.  She  had  ex- 
pected a  torrent  of  reproaches.  She  could  not 
comprehend  how  grief  and  pity  should  take 
precedence  of  resentment  in  my  heart. 

"  We  left  Chambery,"  she  resumed  hastily, 
"  and  went  to  Nice.  There  he  consented  to  rest 
awhile,  and  repair  his  shattered  strength.  It 
had  been  agreed  that  Mrs.  Sandyshaft  should 
only  write  in  case  she  had  something  definite  to 
communicate.  Day  after  day,  he  waited  and 
hoped.  At  last  he  wrote  to  her  at  Naples.  I 
intercepted  that  letter  also,  and  it  remained  un- 
answered. At  length  the  climate,  which  at  first 
had  done  him  good,  began  to  fail  of  its  effect. 
As  the  spring  advanced,  he  fell  gradually  more 
and  more  out  of  health.  I  saw  him  declining 
daily-r-not  from  disease  ;  but  because  he  was  too 
weary  of  life  to  bear  the  burdea  of  living.  Then 
my  punishment  began."  ' 


1^4 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


"  Wretch !"  I  cried,  "  you  let  him  die  !  You 
let  him  die,  when  a  word  would  have  saved 
him  !     Oh,  it  was  murder — murder  !" 

She  smiled  —  a  strange,  agonized,  terrible 
smile. 

*'  You  have  been  well  avenged,"  she  said, 
"  in  all  that  I  have  suffered." 

I  fell  on  my  knees  beside  the  little  cot,  in  a 
paroxysm  of  despair  and  horror.  I  could  not 
weep.  I  could  only  struggle  for  breath,  and 
grasp  the  woodwork  frame  with  both  hands, 
convulsively. 

"  My  child !"  I  gasped.  "  My  poor,  father- 
less baby  !     Dead — oh,  God  !  dead — dead !" 

Maddalena  came  over  swiftly  and  silently,  and 
laid  her  cold  hand  on  mine. 

" Be  comforted,"  she  said.  "Your  husband 
lives." 

I  looked  at  her.  My  lips  moved,  but  my 
tongue  was  dumb.  I  felt  as  if  her  words  had 
some  meaning  which  my  sense  failed  to  com- 
pass. 

"  He  lives,"  she  repeated.  "I  have  come  to 
take  you  to  him." 

The  reaction  was  too  much.  I  had  not  strength 
to  bear  the  sudden  joy.  I  uttered  a  faint  cry ; 
felt  myself  falling  forward,  powerless  to  put  out 
a  hand  in  self  help;  and  lapsed  into  utter  un- 
consciousness. 


CHAPTER  LXVI. 

THE   OSTERIA   DELLA   FOSSA. 
"  Quite  dumb  ?    Dead,  dead." — Shakspeare. 

"  Where  is  she  ?" 

They  were  the  first  words  I  uttered,  when  my 
memory  came  back  and  I  had  strength  to  speak. 

"  Hush,  Bab,"  said  my  aunt,  putting  her  fin- 
ger to  her  lip.  "  You  mustn't  talk.  What's- 
her-name's  gone  this  three  quarters  of  an  hour, 
and — ^mercy  on  us !  you  mustn't  try  to  sit  up, 
child !  Lie  down  and  be  quiet,  or  we  shall  have 
you  going  off  again,  as  sure  as  fate." 

"Gone?  Gone  without  me  ?"  I  cried,  strug- 
gling to  an  upright  posture,  in  spite  of  my 
aunt's  well-meant  eiforts  to  pin  me  to  the  sofa. 

"  Without  you  ?  —  well,  I  should  think  so. 
Here  you've  been  in  a  dead  faint,  ever  since 
they  fetched  me  home.  You  wouldn't  have  had 
her  put  you  in  a  coach  and  carry  you  off  like 
that,  I  suppose  ?  But  do  lie  down,  Bab,  and 
hold  your  tongue,  and  be  rational." 

I  fell  back,  silenced  and  exhausted. 

"Besides,  we've  got  the  address,"  added  my 
aunt.     "  Ida  has  it  all  written  out  upon  a  card. 

Hotel-— hotel whatever  is  the  name  of  the 

place,  my  dear  ?    I'm  sure  I  can't  remember." 

"  Osteria  della  Fossa,"  replied  Ida,  smoothing 
my  hair  back,  tenderly. 

"  Where  is  it?"  I  whispered. 

"  Some  little  way  beyond  La  Storta,  lAehchen^ 
on  the  Florence  road — not  far,  I  believe,  from 
Veii." 

I  closed  my  eyes  and  lay  still  for  several 
minutes,  during  which  my  aunt  insisted  on  pre- 
scribing sal-volatile  and  water,  while  Goody 
busied  herself  in  the  preparation  of  some  strong 
"English"  tea. 

"  What  o'clock  is  it  ?"  was  my  next  question. 

"Nearly  ten,  darling;  and  a  wild  dreary 
night." 


My  aunt  looked  up,  sharply. 

"It's  of  no  use,  Bab,"  said  she.  "I  know 
what  you're  thinking  of;  but  it  can't  be  done. 
You  don't  stir  an  inch  before  to-morrow,  I  pro- 
mise you — and  not  then,  unless  you're  a  vast 
deal  better." 

I  made  no  reply ;  but  I  pressed  Ida's  hand 
significantly,  and  she  returned  the  pressure. 

"And  Hugh  won't  expect  you,  either,"  con- 
tinued my  aunt.  "She'll  tell  him  you're  not 
well;  and  it  won't  kill  him  to  wait  twelve 
hours  longer!" 

"  He  will  not  wait  till  to-morrow,"  I  said, 
confidently.  "  He  will  be  here  himself  before 
midnight." 

"  Here  himself  ?  No,  no,  my  dear — ^love  can 
do  a  good  deal,  I've  no  doubt ;  but  I  don't  be- 
lieve in  miracles.  Love  won't  give  a  man 
strength  to  rise  from  a  sick-bed,  on  which " 

"A  sick-bed?"  I  cried,  starting  upright  in  a 
moment.  "  Merciful  heaven  !  he  is  ill,  and  you 
never  told  me  1" 

"  Never  told  you  ?"  stammered  my  aunt. 
"  But  she didn't  she  tell  you  ?" 

"  Not  a  word.  Oh,  speak — speak — quickly — 
the  truth' — let  me  have  the  truth  !" 

My  aunt  hesitated,  and  looked  as  if  she  would 
fain  recall  her  words. 

"  He — he  was  ill  when  he  started,  you  know," 
she  began. 

"I  did  not  know  it!" 

"  But  he  would  come,  when  he  once  knew  you 
were  in  Rome.  He  was  too  ill  to  venture  by 
sea,  so  they  traveled  post " 

"All  the  way  from  Nice  ?" 

"  No,  from  the  baths  of  Lucca,  where  he  had 
gone  for  change  of  air,  about  ten  days  before." 

"  Go  on — go  on !" 

"  Well,  my  dear,  there's  not  much  more  to 
tell.  He  ought  to  have  been  in  his  bed  when 
he  started;  but  nothing  would  keep  him.  He 
knocked  up  half-way,  at  a  place  called — 
called " 

"Bolseno,"  suggested  Ida. 

"Where  he  was  obliged  to  put  up  for  half  a 
day,  and  a  night,"  continued  my  aunt.  "But 
the  next  morning  he  would  go  on  again.  He 
got  worse  and  worse,  the  farther  he  went ;  and  . 
at  this  place — ^what  dy'e  call  it — Fossa? — 
within  twelve  or  fourteen  miles  of  Rome,  was 
forced  to  give  in,  and  do  what  any  sensible  man 
would  have  done  at  first ;  namely,  take  to  his 
bed,  and  send  for  you  and  a  doctor." 

"And  she  told  you  all  this  ?" 

"After  a  deal  of  cross-examination;  but  you 
know,  my  dear,  when  I  question  folks  I  will  be 
answered.  Mercy  on  us,  child !  what  are  you 
about  ?" 

"  I  am  going  to  my  husband,"  I  replied,  firm- 
ly. "Nay,  aunt,  no  opposition  can  stay  me. 
I  will  go.  Let  a  carriage  and  post-horses  be 
sent  for  instantly." 

"  But  you're  ill  yourself,  Bab,  and " 

"  I  am  well — quite  well,  now." 

"  It's  midsummer  madness,  I  tell,  you !" 

"  Let  it  be  madness,  then — I  mean  to  be  at 
the  Osteria  della  Fossa  by  midnight." 

My  aunt  threw  up  her  hands  in  indignant  pro- 
test, while  Ida  glided  quietly  from  the  room,  to 
see  that  my  orders  were  obeyed. 

"  Mind  this,  Bab,"  said  Mrs.  Sandyshaft;  "if 
any  harm  comes  of  it,  remember  I  set  my  face 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


185 


against  it.  Why,  you  may  be  waylaid  by  ban- 
ditti on  the  road  !  Who  ever  heard  of  such  a 
thing  as  a  lady  going  across  that  horrible  desert 
outside  Rome,  at  night,  and  unprotected  ?  Be- 
sides, how  can  you  leave  the  child  ?" 

*'  I  shall  take  him  with  me." 

"  Oh,  if  you  want  to  kill  the  child,  I  have  no 
more  to  say,"  exclaimed  my  aunt,  very  angrily. 
"  You  know  better  than  I  do,  what  effect  the 
pestilent  night-air  of  the  Campagna  is  likely  to 
take  upon  a  poor  little  infant  like  that.  It's  a 
wicked  tempting  of  Providence — God  forgive 
me,  that  I  should  say  so  of  my  own  niece ;  but 
that's  what  I  think.     Please  yourself!" 

I  did  please  myself.  I  knew  that  on  a  night 
when  the  atmosphere  was  purified  by  heavy  rain, 
there  would  be  no  danger  from  miasmata ;  and 
I  also  knew  that  I  could  carry  my  boy  from  his 
bed  to  the  carriage,  and  so,  most  probably,  all 
the  way,  without  once  awaking  him.  I'^aid  so, 
briefly  but  very  decidedly,  and  left  Mrs.  Sandy- 
shaft  to  cool  down  while  I  dressed  for  the  jour- 
ney. When  I  came  back  from  my  bedroom,  I 
found  her  with  her  bonnet  on,  and  a  ponderous 
old  horse-pistol  lying  before  her  on  the  table. 

"There,  my  dear,"  said  she,  nodding  very 
good-temperedly,  and  taking  up  this  weapon 
with  an  air  of  great  satisfaction,  "  that's  to  keep 
off  the  banditti.  It  always  hung  over  my  bed- 
room chimney-piece  at  Stoneycroft  Hall ;  and 
when  I  came  abroad,  I  brought  it  in  the  drawer 
of  my  dressing-case,  where  other  folks  carry 
jewelry.  None  of  your  foreign  spies  thought 
of  looking  there  ;  and  catch  me  traveling  about 
the  world  without  some  means  of  self-defense !" 

Night ;  darkness ;  the  wind  howling  round  the 
empty  piazzas ;  the  rain  dashing  against  the 
carriage-windows ;  the  blurred  lamps  flaring  at 
the  street-corners;  the  long,  lonely  thorough- 
fares echoing  to  our  wheels  as  we  rattle  past — 
every  revolution  of  those  wheels,  every  clatter 
of  our  horses'  hoofs  on  the  wet  stones,  every 
lagging  second  of  every  minute  carrying  us 
nearer  and  nearer !  Now  we  cross  the  Piazza 
del  Popolo,  with  the  solemn  old  Egyptian  obe- 
lisk dimly  seen  in  the  midst ;  and  are  stopped 
for  a  moment  at  the  gate,  where  some  half-dozen 
soldiers  and  a  customs  official  are  loitering  in- 
side, by  a  blazing  wood-fire.  Now  we  are  out 
upon  the  walled  road  beyond  ;  and  overhead  all 
is  pitchy  darkness,  and  around  us  the  driving, 
blinding  rain. 

Mrs.  Sandyshaft  sits  beside  me,  and  my  baby 
sleeps  sweetly  in  my  arras.  We  are  both  silent. 
The  postillion  shouts  to  his  horses  and  cracks  his 
whip.  Once  we  meet  a  traveling  carriage  with 
blazing  lamps,  and  once  overtake  a  lumber- 
ing diligence  escorted  by  a  couple  of  dragoons. 
These  are  the  only  incidents  of  our  journey. 
By  and  by  the  walls  and  outlying  villas  are  left 
behind  ;  and  we  traverse  a  black,  mysterious  ex- 
panse of  open  country,  over  which  our  road 
seems  sometimes  to  rise,  and  sometimes  to  fall, 
as  if  the  ground  were  hilly.  Thus  the  weary 
minutes  ebb  away ;  and  still  every  turn  of  the 
wheels  carries  us  nearer  and  nearer. 

Now  we  reach  La  Storta,  the  first  post  from 
Rome,  and  take  fresh  horses.  The  change  is 
effected,  no  doubt,  as  quickly  as  usual ;  but  the 
delay,  to#Qy  impatience,  seems  interminable.  I 
throw  a  liberal  buono  mano  to  the  last  postil- 
lion ;  the  new  one  springs  into  his  saddle ;  we 


dash  away  at  a  gallant  pace ;  and  through  the 
gloom  of  the  night,  something  like  the  outlines 
of  near  hills  are  now  and  then  vaguely  dis- 
tinguishable. More  than  two  thirds  of  the  dis- 
tance are  now  past.     In  about  twenty  minutes 

more 1  turn  hot  and  cold  by  turns.     I  can 

scarcely  breathe.  The  wildest  apprehensions  flit 
across  my  mind.  What.if  he  were  dead  when 
I  arrive  ?  What  if  he  should  only  live  to  sigh 
out  his  last  breath  in  my  arms  ?  What  if  Mad- 
dalena  knew  that  he  was  dying ;  and  so  brought 
me  hither  to  gratify  a  last,  subtle,  pitiless,  pro- 
found revenge  ?  I  strive  to  recall  her  face  as  I 
saw  it  just  before  I  fainted.  It  looked  pale,  and 
strange,  and  full  of  meaning.  She  said,  "  your 
husband  lives ;  " — not  "  he  loill  live."    Alas  ! 

The  road  takes  an  abrupt  turn.  Then  comes 
a  break  in  the  stormy  canopy  of  clouds,  and  a 
faint  gleam  shows  that  we  have  entered  a  steep 
ravine.  The  brawl  of  a  torrent  mingles  with 
the  hoarse  murmuring  of  the  wind. 

"Just  the  place  for  banditti,"  mutters  my 
aunt,  peering  suspiciously  from  side  to  side. 

All  at  once,  a  light  is  seen  gleaming  some 
little  distance  ahead.  Our  postillion  spurs  his 
horses — shouts — cracks  his  whip — pulls  up  be- 
fore a  low,  wide-fronted  wayside  inn — the  Oste- 
ria  della  Fossa ! 

The  landlord  (a  mere  peasant  in  a  sheep-skin 
jacket^  comes  hurrying  out  with  a  lighted  pine- 
torch  m  his  hand,  and  bows  us  into  a  tiny,  com- 
fortless parlor  with  a  paved  floor,  and  a  hand- 
ful of  smoldering  ashes  on  the  hearth. 

"  I'll  wait  here,  Bab,  and  take  care  of  the 
child,"  says  my  aunt,  flurriedly ;  "  and,  for 
mercy's  sake,  keep  as  cool  as  you  can.  Re- 
member, he's  very  ill,  and  excitement  can  only 
do  him  mischief.  There  now,  keep  up  a  good 
heart,  and  God  bless  you." 

"  Is  he  awake  ?"  I  ask,  tremulously. 

"  Dimandero,  signora^''^  replies  the  landlord, 
moving  toward  the  stairs. 

I  sprang  after  him. 

"  No,  no,"  I  cried,  snatching  the  lamp  from 
the  table.     "  Show  me  the  way." 

"  Up-stairs,  signora — ^the  second  door  to  the 
right.     Permetta " 

"  Enough — I  will  go  up  alone." 

I  went  alone.  At  the  landing  I  paused; 
dreading,  longing  to  go  forward  ;  a  wild  flutter- 
ing at  my  heart ;  a  weight  of  lead  upon  my  feet. 
Another  two  or  three  steps,  and  the  first  door  is 
passed.  Before  I  reach  the  second,  I  pause 
again.*  Is  it  only  shadow,  or  do  I  see  something 
dark  against  the  threshold  ? 

The  shadow  moves — moans — lifts  a  white  face 
to  the  light,  and,  crawling  toward  me  along  the 
sordid  passage,  grovels  in  piteous  supplication. 

"  If  you  have  a  woman's  heart  in  your 
breast — if  you  hope  for  God's  pity  in  your  last 
need,  speak  for  me  !" 

"  Maddalena  ?" 

"  Only  to  see  him  once  more — to  kiss  his 
hand — to  hear  his  voice,  and  know  myself  for- 
given !     Only  this  !  only  this  !" 

"  Poor  soul !  what  has  happened  ?" 

"  He  will  not  see  me — he  will  not  speak  to 
me !  I  lie  at  his  threshold,  dying — dying — 
dying,  because  he  hates  me  !" 

"  Nay,  you  are  not  dying,  and  he  does  not 
hate  you.  Be  calm.  You  shall  see  him,  and  he 
shall  forgive  you — for  my  sake.     There,  rise — 


186 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


rise  and  go  down  to  the  fireside.  Your  hands 
are  like  ice."" 

"You  promise?" 

"  I  promise.  It  shall  be  my  first  prayer  to 
him,  and  I  know  he  will  grant  it.  How  long  is 
it  since  he  refused  to  see  you  ?  What  have  you 
done  to  anger  him  ?" 

"  Confessed  —  confessed  every  thing !  Till 
this  evening,  I  had  never  told  him  all.  I  did 
not  dare.  I  pretended  I  had  news  of  you  from 
a  stranger.  It  was  to  save  his  life.  I  knew  he 
would  die  without  you.  But  I  could  not  bear 
to  deceive  him  longer.  I  told  him ;  and  when 
I  told  him,  he — aA,  Dio  !  he  cursed  me!" 

"  He  will  recall  the  curse.  Let  me  go  to  him, 
Maddalena,  and,  by  the  love  I  bear  toward  my 
child,  he  shall  pardon  you." 

*'  God  in  heaven  bless  you  !" 

"  But  you  must  go  down  to  the  fire,  and  be 
patient  awhile.  It  may  be  an  hour  before  I  call 
you." 

"  An  hour?     Oh,  no — no — not  an  hour !" 

I  comforted  her  with  such  assurance  of  speed 
as  I  could  give ;  helped  her  to  rise ;  saw  her 
totter  feebly  down  the  stairs,  a  step  at  a  time ; 
and  then  turned  to  the  door  of  the  second  cham- 
ber ;  opened  it  softly,  and  went  in. 

I  saw  a  bed,  screened  by  a  single  curtain ;  a 
table,  on  which  a  small  oil-lamp  was  burning  ; 
and  a  young  peasant  woman  dozing  in  a  chair 
beside  the  window.  I  hesitated  a  moment,  con- 
sidering what  was  best  to  be  done ;  then  crossed 
the  room  noiselessly;  woke  her  by  a  gentle 
touch  ;  laid  my  finger  to  my  lips ;  and  pointed 
first  to  my  wedding-ring,  and  then  to  the  door. 
She  opened  her  dark  eyes — looked  startled — 
then  puzzled  —  then  intelligent ;  whispered 
"  capisco  ;"  and  crept  out  of  the  room. 

I  sat  down  in  her  vacant  chair — alone  with 
him. 

His  watch  lay  on  the  table — his  dear  familiar 
•watch  ;  and  with  it  a  little  plain  gold  locket 
that  I  had  once  given  him,  containing  my  por- 
trait. It  seemed  so  strange  to  see  them  here ! 
I  held  my  breath,  and  listened  for  his  breathing. 
I  could  not  hear  it.  My  terrors  rushed  back 
upon  me.  I  had  meant  to  sit  there  quietly  till 
he  woke ;  but  it  was  impossible.  I  felt  that  I 
must  look  upon  him,  be  the  risk  what  it  might ! 

I  rose,  shading  the  lamp  with  my  hand,  and 
stole  over  to  the  bedside.  His  face  was  turned 
to  the  wall ;  his  hair  fell  on  the  pillow  in  long, 
wild  locks ;  and  he  lay  with  one  arm  above  his 
head,  and  the  other  thrown  carelessly  back. 
What  a  wasted  hand  it  was,  and  how  the  veins 
throbbed  on  it,  as  I  gazed  ! 

The  blinding  tears  welled  up  from  my  heart 
to  my  eyes,  and  dropped  heavily,  one  by  one, 
upon  the  coverlet,  like  drops  of  summer  rain. 
He  stirred ;  and  I  moved  back,  quickly. 

Then  he  sighed  ;  muttered  something  to>  him- 
self; stirred  again  ;  and  said  : 

''Che,oraer 

1  stammered — 

"  Mezza-notte^  signore" 

He  drew  his  breath  quickly ;  seemed  to  listen 
for  a  moment ;  then  sat  up  all  at  once — tore 
the  curtain  aside — cried,  *'  Barbara  !  my  wife  !" 
— and  we  were  once  more  folded  in  each  other's 
arms. 

Once  more,  after  so  many  bitter,  bitter  months 
of  parting.     Oh,  the  joy  of  that  moment !  the 


bewildering,  overwhelming,  intoxicating  joy ; 
never  to  be  forgotten,  and  yet  never  to  be  per 
fectly  remembered.  Tears,  kisses,  questions, 
sobs,  broken  exclamations — who  can  recall  or 
record  them  ?  They  are  sacred,  and  dwell 
vaguely  upon  the  memory,  like  a  half-forgotten 
perfume. 


"  I  am  better — I  know  that  I  am  better.  The 
dead  weight  is  gone  from  my  heart,  and  the 
springs  of  life  are  renewed  in  my  veins.  Ah, 
Barbarina — my  little  Barbarina,  how  sweet  to 
live  again!  How  weary  the  world  has  been 
without  thee  !  Mcthinks  I  hardly  knew  all  the 
depths  of  my  own  tenderness  for  thee,  till  I  had 
lost  thee." 

"  We  will  never  part  again,  my  beloved." 

"Never,  till  death — but  we  won't  talk  of 
death,  my  darling.  There — let  me  lay  my  head 
upon  your  bosom ;  let  me  feel  your  breath  upon 
my  forehead.  God  be  thanked  for  all  this  hap- 
piness !" 

"  Amen,  husband." 

"  Hast  thou  missed  me,  my  little  one?" 

"  Day  and  night ;  sleeping  and  waking ;  in 
every  act,  and  thought,  and  effort  of  my  life.'' 

He  smiled,  and  closed  his  eyes.  An  ineffable 
peace  stole  over  his  features,  and  he  fell  asleep. 

I  dared  not  move — I  scarcely  dared  to  breathe ; 
for  his  head  was  resting  on  my  bosom,  and  my 
arms  supported  him.  Alas  !  how  weak  he  was 
— how  weak  and  pale,  and  sorrow-worn  and  wan ! 
A  long  time,  or  what  seemed  a  long  time,  went 
by  thus.  He  slept  like  an  infant ;  and,  as  he 
slept,  I  saw  with  rapture  the  faint  color  return- 
ing to  his  parted  lips,  and  the  deadly  pallor 
fading  from  his  cheeks  and  brow.  Then  my  po- 
sition began  to  grow  intensely  painful.  My 
limbs  became  cramped ;  my  head  swam ;  my 
hands  and  feet  lost  sensation ;  and  I  felt  as  if  I 
might  at  any  moment  make  some  involuntary 
movement  which  would  wake  him.  But  my 
strong  self-control  prevailed.  I  bore  it,  agony 
as  it  was,  till  it  ceased  to  be  agony,  and  became 
a  mere  physical  numbness,  easy  to  endure. 

The  house  all  this  time  was  profoundly  quiet. 
I  could  hear  the  horses  pawing  now  and  then  in 
the  stable  outside,  and  every  tick  of  a  clock 
somewhere  on  the  ground-floor  below.  Once  I 
fancied  I  heard  a  footstep  on  the  stairs ;  but  it 
was  only  for  an  instant.  At  length,  when  my 
eyes  were  beginning  to  close,  despite  my  efforts 
to  keep  them  open,  he  awoke. 

"Then  it  is  true!"  said  he.  "No  dream, 
after  all!" 

"  Utterly  true,  my  husband." 

"  And  I  have  been  asleep,  sweetheart — asleep 
in  thy  dear  arms !  Such  sleep  is  life.  I  feel 
well  —  quite  well,  already  —  and  quite  happy. 
Another  kiss,  my  Barbara  —  let  me  hold  your 
hand — so ! '^ 

And  he  fell  asleep  again. 

As  he  slept,  his  grasp  relaxed,  and  I  was  en- 
abled gradually  to  disengage  my  hand.  His 
head  was  now  resting  on  the  pillow.  His  breath- 
ing was  gentle  and  regular.  His  hands  were 
cool;  and  the  smile  with  which  he  had  last 
spoken  yet  lingered  on  his  lips.  SudMUleep  was 
life,  indeed!  He  was  saved — I  knew  that  he 
was  saved;  and  I  knelt  down  by  his  bedside, 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY. 


187 


and  offered  up  a  silent  thanksgiving  to  Him  who 
"  giveth  his  beloved  sleep." 

Then  I  rose,  took  the  lamp,  and  stole  across 
the  room.  I  opened  the  door.  Something  dark 
lay  stretched  across  the  threshold.  It  was  Mad- 
dalena,  crouched  in  her  old  place,  with  her  face 
buried  in  her  hands.  Poor  Maddalena !  I  had 
almost  forgotten  her. 

Fearing  to  rouse  her  while  the  door  was  yet 
open,  I  stepped  cautiously  over  her  feet ;  closed 
the  door  behind  me ;  and  then  touched  her  on 
the  shoulder. 

"  Maddalena,"  I  whispered.  "  Wake,  Mad- 
dalena !" 

She  neither  stirred  nor  spoke.  I  stooped, 
and  took  her  hand.  It  was  cold,  like  marble, 
and  as  heavy.  An  icy  shiver  ran  through  me  at 
the  touch. 

"  Maddalena  !"  I  repeated,  "  are  you  asleep  ?" 

She  still  made  no  reply.  I  held  the  lamp  to 
her  face — she  was  dead. 


My  story  is  told.  I  believed,  when  I  began 
to  write,  that  I  had  "  the  labor  of  many  months" 
before  me.  That  was  just  six  years  ago.  Wealth 
and  happiness  are  no  friends  to  industry.  I 
have  loitered  over  my  task  till  its  latest  incidents 
have  already  become  things  of  the  far  past,  and 
more  than  one  of  the  actors  who  figure  in  its 
pages  have  passed  away  forever  from  the  stage 
of  life.  Who  are  those  vanished  ones  ?  Nay ; 
I  will  assume  the  story -tcjller's  license,  and  be 
silent.  What  need  to  jar  our  viols  with  the 
echo  of  a  passing  bell :  What  need,  indeed,  to 
follow  farther  the  fortunes  of  any  of  those  who, 
having  played  their  parts,  now  make  their  exits 
as  the  curtain  falls  ?  Paolo  sailing  sadly  home- 
ward over  the  sapphire  fields  of  the  Tyrrhene 


sea,  bearing  his  sister's  body  to  its  last  rest  in 
the  little  lonely  graveyard  of  her  native  Capri — 
the  good  Professor  merging  his  whole  life  and 
pouring  his  whole  soul  into  his  work  ;  climbing 
steadily  on  toward  ever  loftier  aims  and  broader 
views ;  less  anxious  for  personal  fame  than  for 
the  development  of  truth  in  art,  yet  winning  the 
one  for  himself  and  the  other  for  his  disciples 
by  the  force  of  his  own  rugged,  resolute  genius — 
Hilda  ruling  her  dull  husband  as  if  he  were  a 
,  lackey  in  her  service ;  carrying  her  imperious 
beauty  from  court  to  court;  dissatisfied  at  heart, 
and  weary  of  even  the  wealth  and  homage  for 
which  she  had  staked  all  the  freshness  of  her 
youth — Mrs.  Sandyshaft  exulting  once  more  in 
English  roast-beef  and  the  society  of  her  hun- 
dred pigs ;  hating  foreigners  and  the  fine  arts 
with  an  undying  bitterness ;  quarreling  with  Dr. 
Topham,  playing  piquet  with  Hugh,  and  persist- 
ing in  calling  all  babies  monsters,  without  ex- 
ception or  favor — Ida  and  her  husband  leading 
their  pleasant  artist-life  close  against  that  spot 
where  "the  antique  house  in  which  Raphael 
lived,  casts  its  long  brown  shadow  down  into 
the  heart  of  modem  Rome  " — what  are  all  these 
but  pictures  which  each  reader  will  long  ago 
have  conceived  for  himself,  and  which  no  color- 
ing of  mine  can  bring  before  him  more  vividly? 
For  my  own  part,  in  the  golden  years  that 
have  gone  by  since  these  times  of  which  I  Have 
been  writing,  I  can  add  nothing.  Great  hap- 
piness, like  deep  grief,  is  sacred.  Words  mock 
it.  Its  peace  is  too  profound,  its  joy  too  perfect, 
to  bear  the  gross  translation.  Let  those  who 
love,  realize  the  poem  of  our  lives.  To  all  other 
ears,  its  music  would  be  discord ;  its  language 
unintelligible.  The  hazel  wand  that  brings  to 
light  the  treasures  of  the  earth,  hath  no  magic 
save  in  the  hand  of  the  Diviner. 


y 


14  DAY  USE  ^^^ 

ammN  to  deIk  pkom  which  borrowed 

LOAN  DEPT. 


_-&&:;-3-94^ 


lEC'DLD 


-mrni^'r^TPFe^ 


LD2lA-40w-3,'71 
(P6572sl0)476-A-3i 


General  Library     . 
UmversityofCahforma 
Berkeley 


UC    BFRKELEY   LIBRARIES 


CD31flDfl3m 


